


back on old habits

by bitch3s (softsmilesandbrokenhearts)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Dark Will Graham, Depression, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsmilesandbrokenhearts/pseuds/bitch3s
Summary: But as Hannibal stands there with him, in the quiet aching silence, he starts to believe that he could have it.And that is a dangerous thought, but it’s already in Will’s head, and it refuses to leave.-It’s getting harder, and sometimes, Will thinks of how easy it would be to die.It isn’t a pleasant thought, but his thoughts never are.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 66
Kudos: 187





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All respective characters belong to NBC Hannibal and Thomas Harris, I do not own these characters.  
> -  
> Trigger warning for self harm and suicidal ideation.

He gets monthly evaluations.  
  
Or rather he is told that if he wants to continue being a police officer, he is going to get his ass into compulsory therapy.  
  
They say it’s common practice, a necessity for working a job like this, but he doesn’t believe it. Half of the police officers he works with never see any action beyond their desks, and another good portion will never see anything to warrant a psych eval. So, he knows this is personal, knows that the walls he thought he built up are not as strong as they should be. Will sees the thinly veiled worry that lie in his coworker’s eyes, when they come back from a chase and he can’t stop shaking enough to give a report. That he will say something, slip up, and speak of murder in a way normal people don’t. This poor hapless twitchy man is ranting about murder again, watch him go.  
  
He knows enough to see the distance and careful hands people give him, and he knows.  
  
Will hasn’t been okay in a while, and yet he can’t face it.  
  
They ask him to be honest and use this to his advantage, that most jobs would charge him money to do this. He doesn’t care about money, not as much as he should, and the offering means nothing to him. He doesn’t want to go in and be told that he is not okay, because he knows that already, but he cannot think about it. Admitting is one half of the problem and Will has too much to admit to, too much holding him back.  
They make him go anyways, and it should irritate him, but he’s too tired to care.  
  
He doesn’t tell the truth though and manages through lies of omission. The woman who always sees these through will look at him, with narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth, as if expecting him to say something different each time. She’ll pry sometimes, with thinly disguised probes at his mental state, and if Will weren’t so resigned to the situation, he would yell at her. He doesn’t understand people’s obsession with figuring out his brain, and he hates being expected to talk. Despite what people think, he is not some social experiment to toy with and wind up for fun. He hates it all, hates that he was born like this, broken enough to be noticed by all the wrong people.  
  
Sometimes though, after a particularly bad night, where the air he breathes is never enough and people taking up space in his head won’t quiet down, he considers saying something.  
  
Spilling the filthy violent thoughts that beat through his mind and chest, the self-deprecation that lies on the tips of his fingers, begging him to hurt and end his emotional pain. Visions of macabre, grey tinted and vivid all the same, paint his thoughts and refuse to let go. He wonders what that means, wonders if it’s normal to look at the woman next to you and picture her death with vivid clarity.  
  
He knows it’s not, knows that he is fucked up, and so his silence continues.  
  
The problem lies in that he would have too little to say. Too much maybe, as his words turn frantic and he starts to spill every thought that ever crossed his mind. Will doesn’t want that, doesn’t need to be diagnosed with labels that don’t fit or evaluated by professionals who are more interested in fame then helping him out.  
  
So, he says nothing.  
  
He walks out of the room each time with desperate words clinging to the back of his throat and his hands aching to do something more, and he feels cold.  
  
-  
  
Eventually, he learns that to make this work, he needs to learn to play pretend. Slip on a mask and pretend that he isn’t breaking. That one day he will crack, and the longer he can go without slipping further down the slippery slope that is his sanity, the better it will be for everyone.  
  
He changes jobs and switches faces, trying to seem better. He doesn’t know if its working, or if his craziness is just more accepted at a place where that’s all they talk about.  
  
He likes teaching, giving lectures to students who don’t even try to pretend they are listening, and he likes the way he can talk about this, talk about blood and murder without getting strange looks.  
  
Will slips up and calls a particularly violent murder a work of art, and when no one bats an eye, he feels nothing but relief. He knows that his darker desires are still something he can never explain, but at least here he can be more himself. He gets a little less wary and when he gets a reputation of being closed off and sweaty, at least its one that’s true.  
  
Still, it doesn’t stop the nightmares or the ugly shake to his hands. He feels sad, more than ever, and he wonders if he’ll be able to fix this.  
  
Before he slips and takes measures into his own hands.  
  
-  
  
Eye contact is such a silly little thing, born from a necessity to seem interested and feel known. He doesn’t want to be known, doesn’t want people to look into his eyes and see everything he is trying to desperately to hold back. Because he knows sometimes, when he’s just on the verge of too tired, he will let something flicker across his face, and he will watch with horrified amusement as people flinch back.  
  
Will is a monster, and he knows that his eyes will reflect that if he isn’t careful.  
  
Eyes are the window to the soul, and he is a soulless man trying too hard to fit into his empathy. He no longer knows where his emotions begin, and where the countless people he has picked up over the years end. He is not himself, and with every glimpse into another’s brain he loses another piece.  
  
So, he avoids eyes, shies away from people trying too hard to be friendly, and wonders what he did in his last life to be tortured like this.  
  
-  
  
Suicide is such a taboo concept, even in a job like his, where any sort of death shouldn’t be. Maybe because it’s harder to explain someone taking their own life instead of taking another’s. Where murder has motive and yet for some people, suicide is senseless and degrading.  
  
Sometimes, he wishes he could die.  
  
Could die because he knows distinctly now that his life is not his own. He is borrowing time, and he should be thankful enough that he has a modicum of self-control, enough to see it through. He is aware that the time he has on Earth is for other people, and to die would be to take something that he hardly owns away.  
  
He still wants it. Desperately so, when the alcohol isn’t working and his brain is on fire, and there seems to be a lack of oxygen, a vacuum consuming him. And its’s such a silly thing to want in his field and state of mind, knowing all to well that death will solve nothing. But then again, humans are never very logical, and when it comes to this, Will is stupidly human.  
  
Later, when Jack Crawford barges into his life, loud and demanding, uninterested in keeping Will safe and sane, he knows that people will never see him as anything other than a useful tool. One that is dulling and getting closer to breaking each day, so everyone is trying desperately to use him before he is gone.  
  
His life is not his own, he has no right to consider his death.  
  
It doesn’t stop him from envisioning it, or scratching harsh red lines into his skin, desperate to transfer his pain into something physical, something explainable. Every single line he etches into his skin serves as atonement for his failures and his thoughts. It works, as much as it can when one is trying so hard to stay afloat when they know they are already sinking.  
  
And yet the idea is a present thing in his mind, flickering in and out of his conscious. He isn’t actively pursuing it, he tells himself that he wouldn’t, but sometimes he hurts to the point where it sounds sweet, a respite from the way his brain wants to destroy him. He plans it out, the ways he could go, and takes the visions to sleep. Lets himself dream of universes where he had control, where he wasn’t so hopeless and strung along onto other people’s motives.  
  
Sometimes he lives contently, a pack of dogs and an adoring wife who keeps things interesting. He has beautiful children who mean the world to him and make him feel safer and more stable than anything else. These versions of him do not think of murder or his own death, and he is happy in these, which makes it all the more awful when he wakes up, heart beating for something that could never be real.  
  
He dreams of lives where he isn’t so broken or bent and can wake up in the morning without the aching twinge of regret. He dreams of other lives, where he has control of his demise, and he carves deep lines into his skin and bleeds out, a quiet painful ending. It’s always hands on how he ends, his pain too entwined with his being to let his death be impersonal.  
  
He wonders if this is hurting him, letting himself pursue his own death, even if its only in his head. But he considers his other thoughts, where his hands shake with adrenaline, someone’s blood glinting on his teeth. He thinks of the way he gets desperate at crime scenes, where he kneels and shakes, only to disguise the heavy arousal that hits him and turns him desperate.  
  
Where he chases down a suspect, gun rattling against his hip, and sweet adrenaline filling his lungs. And all he can think of is how easy it would be to tackle them, take his gun out and make them bleed. He gets off on the thought, a sinful secret hidden behind long shirts and awkward posture.  
  
It gets worse, when he begins to work for Jack, the crimes a constant in his head. He finds it hard to escape their minds, and his body suffers because of it. He turns to his kitchen knives, the blades sharp enough to do what he needs. He will often find himself standing over the sink after a drink or two, watching his blood slip out of his body until he feels like himself. Each drop of blood is like a purge of sin, of the ugly creatures that begin to pile up in his brain. The scars build up, and his desperation grows to the point where even his sleep is tortured, no longer escape from this.  
  
It’s getting harder, and sometimes, Will thinks of how easy it would be to die.  
  
It isn’t a pleasant thought, but his thoughts never are.  
  
-  
  
From the moment he meets Hannibal Lecter, he knows who he is. Or at least has a good enough of an idea to piece the rest together, and it takes all his self-control to not run out of the room screaming. The man sitting across from Jack barely looks at him, posture intentionally casual, and Will sees the blood on the man before anything else. Can practically envision the man’s crimes, and they taste sweet, like everything he’s ever wanted. He is another monster playing human, but his mask is crafted to perfection, and if Will weren’t the man he is, Hannibal would be just another psychiatrist trying to tear his brain apart.  
  
But he sees him, intimately so even from just a single glance, and he shouldn’t find it comforting to see someone so likeminded.  
  
It scares him, the ease of which the older man exists, and he wants to disappear.  
  
He is stronger than that though, built up from his sweat and blood, and so he sits next to him, and plays his part. He slouches a bit, and acts forlorn and wary, pretends to be the man that everyone wants him to be and yet berates him for being. It amuses the older man, the way Will seems to shy away from conversation and when he lets it slip that he hates eye contact, he notices the way Hannibal’s eyes flash in concealed fascination.   
Will tries his hardest not to shake and wonders how he should let this continue. It would be the right thing to pull Jack aside and tell him of his suspicions, but he knows that without any evidence there is hardly anything to go by. Jack would listen and get him to prove it, but right now Will doesn’t have the energy to go through that, see things fall apart.  
  
So, he stays silent, and tries to disregard the idea that this will be his downfall.  
  
Besides, he doesn’t want to explain that the only reason he sees Hannibal is because he is a mirror image, the picture of the man he could have been if he had given in. It stings him, and it hurts to consider a distant life, where he could be like the man before him and not feel so desolate.  
  
Instead he puts on a show and hides away with anger that is easy to come by, and when he storms away from the room, hands shaking and heart throbbing with want, Will knows this won’t end well.  
  
Hannibal will be his doom, his savior if he is lucky, and that is enough to send panic down his chest.

  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self harm and mentions of blood.

He kills a man. Shoots him down and counts the number of bullets it takes to take the man’s frame down.  
  
Will knows that the man deserved it, thinking of all of Hobbs’ crimes and the awful things he has done, and yet it stings. He doesn’t know if it hurts because he gave into the thrill of ending someone’s life, or because of all the firsts he imagined, this wouldn’t be how he got his first taste of blood.  
  
All the same it makes him shake with adrenaline and glee, and his hands won’t properly close over the young girl’s body on the kitchen floor. He shakes and mutters in distress, not knowing how to save her, help her get past this. Suddenly large hands come into frame, and he sits back watching Hannibal firmly press his capable hands over the wound, doctor skills coming just in time.  
  
Hannibal looks up at him, with a blank face but Will sees how his nostrils flare, scenting the obnoxious fear and adrenaline that fills the room. He distantly wonders if the man can smell his low arousal, the way his hands are begging for more.  
  
Will ends the thought there, and stares down at his hands, ridden with blood. He has the strange urge to lick it off, to see if her blood was tinged with her panic, but with the doctor’s eyes still keenly focused on him, he doesn’t dare.  
  
It’s a near thing though, and hours later when he finds remains of blood beneath his fingernails, he pretends that he doesn’t bite it out and swallow it with pleasure.  
  
Admitting he has a problem will do nothing for him now.  
  
-  
  
Surprisingly, the guilt hits him rather fast, in between cases and Garrett Jacob Hobbs haunting him, and he lets himself atone for Hannibal’s crimes. They aren’t his own, but as he has built up the man’s profile and discovered that each murder was more vile, more beautiful, than the last. It breaks him, as all things revolving death eventually do, and he finds a way to manage it.  
  
Will doesn’t want to turn the man in, not yet at least, and so he suffers for it, takes the pain of his throbbing head and lack of sleep with a stilted smile. Pops at least a bottle of aspirin a week and ignores the concerned stares he gets from people when they think he isn’t looking.  
  
He doesn’t want their pity, and certainly doesn’t deserve their concern.  
  
Eventually that is not enough, and he returns to his knives, and the soft skin of his forearms. It works, somewhat, and each life that Hannibal takes, Will adds another line or two to his body.  
  
He feels so disconnected to the pain, and it makes him angry, that his body and mind will kill him over and over but won’t let him have a say in his own pain. He wants control so desperately, and it is never there for him to grasp, just always out of reach.  
  
He moves on to cigarette burns, when the sharp edge of a knife begins to dull, and he lets the acidic smoke fill his lungs, breathes in the sharp icy air of winter, and then presses it to the tender meat of his thigh, near the ridge where his leg meets his hip.  
  
It aches, hurts so immensely that Will has to choke back a muffled scream, lips pressing together as he twists the dying embers into his skin for a moment longer before pulling away with a sigh. The mark is a vivid red, irritated, and stinging, and he takes the moment to enjoy the pain, clearing his head. It works in a way that cuts didn’t, and he knows that he will regret this tomorrow, when the itchy fabric of his pants scrape against it. But regrets are pleasant to him, in a dark ugly way, knowing that slowly he will destroy his skin to the point of no return.  
  
Eventually his skin will have no room for new scars, and Will wonders what he will do then, when his body becomes a broken husk for his filthy mind. He wonders if he’d let himself die then, give up his nobility to the sweet sleep of death.  
  
The thought gives Will a dull pulse of satisfaction, and he tosses the cigarette butt into an empty can near him and stares up at the stars. They glimmer a gentle light, and he feels his fingers distantly trace the afterimages of them long after the sun rises. He longs for it to be night forever, free from the torture of the day and the way the darkness hides his flaws.  
  
The pain won’t last forever, so he takes these moments and holds onto them, fearing when they too won’t work.  
  
-  
  
He hadn’t realized how painful it must be seeing a loved one suffer from the same afflictions that Will delivers to his body, until he is with Abigail, walking with her outside and listening to her rant about her group sessions. She says something harsh about her caretaker and Will snorts, warm amusement flooding his body, and for a while he forgets his own pain in the face of his burning affection for the girl next to him.  
  
He hasn’t known her for long, and already he is devoted to her in a way he wishes his father had been for him. It’s a quiet adoration and support that he tries to give, all the while trying not to replace the memory of her father. He wonders if Abigail will ever learn to hate him for killing her father, for taking away the life of a man who loved her so dearly.  
  
Will hopes more than anything that she never will, but he knows that if she did, it would only be right.  
  
He shies away from those thoughts while he is still near the younger girl, and then notices how cold it is, and without a word he slips off his jacket and hands it to her, and her sleeve slips, just an inch and he sees thin red lines crawling up her wrist.  
  
They are recognizable instantly, and even after she tugs his jacket on, and they disappear out of sight, their rawness burns in his brain, and he feels his chest tighten with pained worry.  
  
He is unused to this, caring for another human to this level, and it makes him sick with fevered panic, knowing somewhere along the way they’ll will leave him, be it his choice or not.  
  
It hurts him, and the fondness he felt beating in his chest stutters for a moment, eyes widening as he looks up to find Abigail watching him, a sad purse to her mouth.  
  
“Are those-” He starts and then clears his throat, wondering if Abigail would take his concern for what it is, or just an encroachment on her father’s role. He is not her father, and yet he cares for her so much, and she must see that, but he wonders if she accepts it just to appease him. The idea irks him more than he would like, and he banishes it again from his mind for the moment and returns to the present where Abigail is shaking slightly eyes focused on her twisting hands.  
  
“They are old. I wouldn’t worry about it.” She says quietly, and it feels so much like a lie that it coats Will’s mouth with something bitter that he can’t displace. He knows they aren’t, because he has similar lines coating his own skin, barely a few days old and they look duller than the ones that line Abigail’s arm. He makes a soft little noise, and Abigail must take it as anger because she backs away from him with quivering lips.  
  
“Please don’t tell anyone.” It’s a soft betrayal, seeing the fear in her eyes, and he sighs, sitting down on a bench and patting the spot next to him. He’s not good at this, caring, and he is trying his best at it, but he still realizes that in some respects, he is failing.  
  
“I won’t. Are you, you’re alright, aren’t you?” She’s not, and they both know this, but she nods all the same and takes the opportunity to sit next to him.  
  
“I am, it’s nothing to worry about.” She pauses and then smiles slightly, looking more like her age, an unsure thing. “It helps me with control, and the nightmares.” Abigail spits the last word out like its poison, and Will nods in agreement, thinking again of their parallels and how keenly he feels for her.  
  
He knows how she feels, intimately so, trying so hard to escape the slow torture of your mind turning against you, the pain made bearable by hurting physical. It’s not healthy, but he doesn’t know how to tell her to stop, without having to stop and tell himself to quit too.  
  
He won’t, and this is where he fails.  
  
“It’s understandable. We all need some way to find control.” Will says softly, and looks at her near face on, as she watches him with tired eyes. “And I would be hypocritical if I told you to stop.” He lets that hang in the air, and it is a strange thing watching Abigail recognize his words for what they are.  
  
Will allows her time to reflect on them, as he thinks of another conversation like this one, where they spoke of murder and how it feels awful. Except it doesn’t and he is beginning to suspect that Abigail agrees with the sentiment. He sees how she holds back, how her eyes flicker at concealed excitement when she talks about her father, about how she nearly died. She is beautifully subtle and seems near normal, and it scares him less than it should.  
  
And so here they are, two damaged beasts trying to measure pain by their own terms, trying to forget the thrill of taking a life.  
  
He wonders if she knows that he is aware of her own transgressions. He doesn’t dare picture it fully, knowing the innocent picture of her will be destroyed forever, and his brain would like to hold onto it for a little while longer, but he knows. She may have not hunted, but he knows how to spot a fisher and the invisible blood that stains her conscious is delicately present no matter what she does.  
  
She is a killer, cold blooded and manipulative, and Will wonders why he can’t be bothered enough to care.  
  
“Should I be asking if you are okay?” Abigail eventually says, and its not quite the question she thinks it is, because they both already know how he will answer. Still, he tries his best to smile, and he wraps an arm around her in quiet affection.  
  
“I haven’t done it in a long time, don’t start worrying about me now.” The lie slips easily out of his mouth, and Abigail’s eyes gleam with sorrowful understanding, but she says nothing, and lets his deceit float away into the wind. Or she lets him think the conversation is over, and then catches him off guard with a cruel smirk and a quick movement of her hand. Her thin fingers curl around the arm wrapped around her, and Will does his best not to wince when she digs her fingers in, nails scratching at his skin through the thin layer of his flannel.  
  
Abigail looks at him then, with knowing eyes, and he grimaces, looking away as his arm dimly throbs with pain. He doesn’t say anything, but he knows that Abigail thinks she’s proven something, by hurting him, by proving he’s still hurting. He doesn’t tell her that he was trying to protect her from knowing, from seeing things she wouldn’t understand, because they both know that isn’t true.  
  
It doesn’t change anything, not really, because she understands to some degree, and she won’t say anything without exposing herself too.  
  
So, this will be a secret of theirs, one to hold onto and worry about at night, when they wonder if the other is still alive.  
  
He feels the urge to escape then, and he presses it down, denies the urge to flee with a small chuckle. “How about we go eat something? I’ll bring you back before curfew.” He offers and smiles a bit more genuinely at the way her face lights up with excitement. It is so easy to please her, and he wishes she would stay like this, easy to love and easy to care for.  
  
He knows this time, simple and sweet will not last, and he savors it to the best of his abilities.  
  
She nods, and Will swallows back the lump in his throat, the one that aches at being understood.


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, he thought that knowing what, who Hannibal is would make him distant. Would give Will the incentive to not get close, fall into the comforting idea that is friendship with the older man. But the greedy part of his brain, the one that takes pleasure in knowing the man in a way that no one else does keeps him coming back for more.  
  
It is addicting being in his presence, his accented tones washing over him and soothing him, to the point where sometimes he forgets that the man across from him is a serial murderer.  
  
Sometimes its nice to forget, and Will allows it some nights, where he longs for normality and a person in his life that can anchor him instead of trying to wind him up and watch him go. He wants Hannibal to be normal, wants the man he is pretending to be, instead of the cold thing that sits beneath his mask.  
  
But Will also likes that side, the bloody art that it creates, and how sometimes the older man will flicker and hint to something more menacing. He is a cruel creature, playing a gentleman, and it’s thrilling to see the minute slips in his composure.  
  
They are the same, and Will is beginning to lose the distinction between Hannibal’s two sides.  
  
And the man is trying to manipulate him, it’s clear in the way he tries to plant seeds into Will’s head, ones where he rationalizes Will’s thoughts about murder, from the way his hands gently caress his shoulders. Hannibal is addicted to the mess that Will is becoming, the way his brain is falling apart.  
  
Were he a lesser man, one less in tune with reading people he would fall for it and be completely at the older man’s mercy. As it is, even with his knowledge, Hannibal makes it sounds tragically easy to just give in and roll over to show his belly. Part of him wants that, and the other part of him longs for control. To stand over Hannibal, a cruel smile on his lips as he destroys his world. He wonders if he could kill Hannibal, wrap his hands around his strong throat, and grin as his breathing slowly stops.  
  
It’s an exciting thought, dangerous and thrilling, and he keeps it hidden away, far away from where Hannibal can influence it.  
  
The other thing is that he was so busy trying not to fall under the influence of Hannibal’s luring words, and he failed to stop something even worse.  
  
He is beginning to like Hannibal past any point of return, and when flickers of something that could be called love start to rise in his chest, he knows he is a fool for it all.  
  
It’s strange, falling in love with the one person that could understand him better than anyone else. And it hurts, because he’s not supposed to be able to love, let alone fall for such a despicable man. He considers gay panic, the way he should be concerned with how easily he’s fallen for a man, but he knows it falls deeper than sexual interest. His mind is drawn to the older man’s and he feels his soul ache for something he’s not supposed to have.  
  
And when Hannibal touches him, meaningful and fleeting, he barely stops himself from reaching out and drawing him back in.  
  
-  
  
Unfortunately, he becomes sort of friends with Hannibal, which means long nights where Hannibal reads him with a sharp precision. He does it repeatedly, and picks at his worst thoughts watching with concealed pleasure as Will falls apart.  
  
It scares him, being known so intimately.  
  
“We all deserve happiness Will.” Hannibal tells him during one of their conversations, where therapy toes the line of friendship, and it is scary knowing how close he and the older man have gotten in such little time. “Even those who have done bad can still find happiness, it’s human nature.” He says, maroon eyes staring right at Will, and they glint knowingly as if he knows exactly what Will is thinking now.  
  
Knows how Will’s wrists and thighs itch at that very moment, and how the day begins to catch up with him, melting his brain into a pathetic mush of desperate emptiness.  
  
He thinks about it, and Hannibal gives him the opportunity to think, standing up to pour them more wine.  
  
Happiness is a distant concept, lying in the space between his fingertips waiting to be grasped. It is there, lingering in the back of his mind, this missing thing from a corner of his brain that shouldn’t be vacant. He recalls an early childhood where he wasn’t given the opportunity to be happy, and how later in life he was too aware to let himself feel it. People explain it to him sometimes, in fond stories of friends and hobbies, and when Will tries it on, fitting into their perspectives it still tastes foreign.  
  
Maybe he isn’t equipped to be happy.  
  
He wasn’t made for such a thing, and now he suffers, trying desperately to be something he isn’t. A voice in his head, one becoming increasingly common tells him that he’d be happier if he were himself. The taste of violence thrills him, and that if he would just let him be the sick thing he was meant to be, he would feel that feeling that so desperately eludes him.  
  
He tries to avoid this thought; it tastes vile on his tongue despite the punch of arousal that crawls through his stomach at the idea.  
  
Or perhaps he doesn’t deserve it, serving penance for the thoughts running rampant through his head. And he knows this is stupid, that even monsters feel happiness and feel like they deserve it. Will isn’t quite a monster, but he toes the line, the distinction between the people he chases and the person he is growing smaller every time.  
  
He tells this to Hannibal, offhandedly and not thinking about it all that much. That he doesn’t think happiness is meant for certain people, and he avoids explaining it when Hannibal sends him a questioning look. He knows that his implications did nothing to shield what he really was saying, and it stings to see the worry settle into Hannibal’s face, stark and sad.  
  
Will didn’t mean to admit he was unhappy, but part of him is relieved to admit it, let someone else feel worried for him since Will has long lost the capacity to do it for himself.  
  
But he doesn’t want the man to worry, not anything besides maybe clinical interest, and he wishes they could pass this up, because the two of them already know what Hannibal will say.  
  
Despite this, it still hurts, when Hannibal looks at him with considering eyes and they soften as they catch the subtle desperation that lines Will’s face. He wants to tell the man to drop it, to leave the obvious tension rising in the room alone, and turn back to easier conversations, ones where Will doesn’t have to look directly at himself and his flaws. Another part of him wants Hannibal to say it, voice it out into the silence and hurt Will. Because it will hurt, to hear his flaws so noticed and explained, and part of him wants Hannibal to not see him as a pitiful broken man.  
  
He is though, he knows this, and its only a matter of time before he must face it.  
  
“Do you say this out of personal experience?” The man quietly questions, and it eats at him, his deteriorating walls, and the ever-growing lump in his throat. He shrugs, downing the rest of the wine in his glass, and he stands up looking at the time. Technically their session is over, and he could leave, and escape this conversation. Instead he walks to the fireplace and stares at the vivid flames and tries to distance himself from his words.  
  
“I hardly see how that is important Dr. Lecter.” Will mutters into his glass, and the stiff silence behind him means Hannibal is trying to figure out the best way to turn the situation to his favor. He allows it with tired resignation, and when Hannibal steps up behind him, a firm hand landing softly on his neck, he allows it and pretends that he doesn’t feel himself leaning into it.  
  
“On the contrary, I cannot fathom why it wouldn’t be important, you are my friend Will.” The way the man pronounces his name, as if it holds all the meaning in the world always eats at Will, makes him wonder how genuine the man’s affections are for him. If this thing that is slowly growing between them is as one sided as it feels.  
  
He hopes it is, thinking about be loved back, by such a man is too much to consider.  
  
“This is not a new concept to me; I am used to it.” Will manages to say, and Hannibal’s grip tightens briefly on his neck before it falls and lingers small of his back, touch light and gone before he has time to react.  
\  
“That does not make it any less pressing to address. Is this something that is an aftermath to the life you lead?” He asks, and he doesn’t give Will the opportunity to say much before he continues, words firm but unfailingly kind. “Or because you won’t let yourself feel happy?” It hits him at that moment, and he is not an emotional person, not in this regard, but the tears that unwillingly prick at his eyes are an answer of itself.  
  
“The later. I don’t deserve it.” His voice cracks on the last syllable, and he feels unshed tears waiting to fall. He will not give Hannibal the satisfaction of watching him fall apart.  
  
All the same, the man makes a soft considering noise in the back of his throat, soothing and scary all at once.  
  
“I think you do Will. You have just not found it yet.” Hannibal eventually says, and it feels so heavy with an emotion that Will doesn’t recognize, but he feels it all the same. It falls into his stomach, and a pitiful noise escapes his mouth before he can stop it.  
  
Hannibal slowly turns him around and looks at him for a long moment before deciding something. Will feels himself shaking, and he tries not to imagine how awful he must look now, the way he feels like he is about to break. Hannibal smiles slightly, one that doesn’t belong on his face and is the most genuine thing to ever cross the man’s face.  
  
“Can I hug you?” Hannibal asks quietly, and he sounds just unsure enough to have Will nodding in agreement before he can think of it. They don’t do physical contact, at least not on Will’s part, but now, all he can think of is how much he wants it.  
  
Strong arms wrap slowly around his body, and he does his best to not notice how easily he sinks into it, body aching for a touch that isn’t his own. It’s so gentle and different to how his body usually gets treated, and it does nothing to quell the tears that still press against the back of his throat. Will presses his own arms to the small of the other man’s back, and it feels achingly right, how easily he can fold underneath Hannibal’s chin and fit into the grooves of his body.  
  
For once he doesn’t think of the Chesapeake Ripper and his crimes, and focuses on the dimming sorrow in his chest, and the steady press of Hannibal’s hands to his skin.  
  
“People like me do not have many opportunities for happiness Hannibal.” He does not fail to notice this is the first time he calls Hannibal by his first name, or the hidden message beneath his words. ‘I am a monster, and we both know it to be true. How could someone like me ever stand a chance at being happy when the very thing I long for is something I could never have.’  
  
He doesn’t say this, not out loud, and yet Hannibal seems to understand all the same, as he quietly hums a soft tune into the air around them.  
  
“You are not unworthy of happiness.” He murmurs into the curls of Will’s hair, and he chuckles when Will’s heart skips a beat or two, in a familiar fondness. “You were given a gift, and you have the potential to shine so brightly. Others may see you as a fragile teacup, bound to break, but I am aware of how you could be so much more. Your happiness may be lacking, but I will do my best to bring it to you.” It’s not a confession, and it’s hardly the most poetic thing the man has ever said, and yet the way it lights Will on fire, inside and out, is a tell of itself.  
  
Hannibal is saying something in between the lines, and Will would have been able to decipher it, if it weren’t for the gentle caress to his hair that turns him brainless. He gives in, and ignores the small whine that escapes his throat, too tired and strangely content to care.  
  
Will nearly confesses there and then. To a numerous amount of secrets that he holds so closely in his heart. He wants to talk about the murders he longs to see, the kills that he can taste on his tongue, blood thick and heavy with heat. That he knows who Hannibal truly is, that he is a magnificent creature, that Will is desperately falling even more in love with.  
  
He doesn’t, and he bites his cheek to hold back the words beginning to be let out. He instead clutches to Hannibal a little tighter, and smiles against his neck, hoping that his actions will speak for him instead.  
  
It hurts thinking of how this could end badly, and for a moment he wonders whose blood will spill first. And then he wonders how Hannibal has influenced him so subtly, that he has began to think of murder so vividly outside the safe space of his house, that he longs for it more now, an itch growing stronger.  
  
It’s horrifying, and he wants to pull away and run.  
  
But as Hannibal stands there with him, in the quiet aching silence, he starts to believe that he could have it.  
  
And that is a dangerous thought, but it’s already in Will’s head, and it refuses to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sad so here's what came out of that lmao, hope its enjoyable or at least emotion evoking. Stay safe yall :)


	4. Chapter 4

In his line of work, they study what turns someone into a killer, what makes them defile life so willingly. Often, it’s the people who can’t feel who are marked the scariest, the sociopaths and psychopaths crawling around the trenches of Earth. They are studied and prodded in mental institutions and watched closely as they show no empathy or guilt for what they have done.  
  
The Chesapeake Ripper is one of these killers, cold and ruthless, turning his kills into art, with no inclination of stopping. And yet, the man Will knows, the one behind the manipulation and falsities feels deeply, and it bugs him so ardently that Hannibal will feel in every other aspect than the one Will wants him to.  
  
He hates that he loves a man that will refuse to feel the one thing that haunts Will.  
  
His apathy towards his victims, his pigs, is something that Will can never have. He feels too much, and far too deeply, and so he will forever be punished for being something he's not.  
  
If he were more in tune with his crimes, maybe Will could catch him and lock him up, and deny any risk of temptation ever again. He should lock him up, the fact that the older man isn’t already in prison is a measure of how low Will has fallen, how dark he has been tempted to become. Because that is what Hannibal is, a Devil disguised as a sheep, practically begging him to kill.  
  
People like Hannibal are the ones everyone is afraid of.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Will is not.  
  
He should be, but his mind refuses to connect that logic to real life, and so he sits on the precipice, too amused with the man to be truly scared. He knows someday, this will be a mistake.  
  
Will thinks it’s the opposite, the ones who know what they are doing, and feel so much. Feel every being of their body become attuned to their victim, the ones that know they should be remorseful and yet feel ecstatic instead.  
  
He’d be that killer, if he let himself cross that line, and maybe that is what scares him.  
  
-  
  
Will doesn’t cry, doesn’t know if he could allow himself to fall to such a baseless emotion. And yet sometimes, in the dead of the night, when not even his dogs can comfort him and fight away the nightmares that linger on his skin, he wonders if it would help.  
  
Maybe if he processed his emotions normally, let himself cry like he should be, he wouldn’t be so fucked. Because he is fucked, irrevocably so, and it pains him to know that after all he’s been through, he won’t cry.  
  
Will can hurt himself, emotionally and physically, and drink away all the pain he can, and no matter how low he gets, his face remains dry.  
  
Even seldom, when tears leave his eyes, its less so his tear ducts picking up on his sorrow and more an involuntary action that his brain allows without his consent. He wants to cry of his own volition, tear up because he simply allowed it, and yet again his mind denies him that control.  
  
It comes close, when Will is messing about with his fishing gear, and he notices something off, something indistinctly wrong about a few of them. Nothing sticks out immediately, and he wants to believe he is just turning crazy. But he sees impressions of another man’s influence in them, and he knows then what he will find.  
  
It bothers him, and so he tears them apart, examines the horror that unfolds with each one he rips apart. He has witnessed too many crime scenes and horrors to not recognize human remains when he sees them, and when he pulls hair and brittle bones from the very thing that brings the closest to joy, it breaks him.  
  
It hurts, because he knows who did it, and he can’t find it in him to be angry, not in a way that would matter. What hurts, is that even after knowing how far Hannibal will go to amuse himself, Will is still surprised that he would plant evidence right in front of his nose, and try to frame him. The taste of betrayal is an old, familiar thing, but the heartache that comes with it is immensely new, to the point there the brittle pain of it brings tears to his eyes.  
  
He lets himself cry for this one, and pretends he’s crying because he’s horrified and guilty. Despite it all, he finds it beautiful, the very hint of Hannibal’s darkness, and bone fragments that dig into his palm, leaving dull bloody pricks in their wake. When the throb of arousal and awe die down enough for Will to stand up, he stumbles to the mirror to examine his face.  
  
His face looks bloated, and darker, tracks of tears implanting themselves into his skin. Ultimately, his post-cry face doesn’t look much different, nose pink and eyes a little wider, but what hits him is that even with the tears still drying on his face, and the pain in his chest, he is smiling, one of cruel vindication and amusement, one that doesn’t belong to the situation.  
  
He looks crazy and awful, and all he can think of is whether Hannibal would find him beautiful in this moment.  
  
If he would see the crazy sitting right beneath his skin, curled behind his teeth, ready to inflict damage.  
  
He is elated beneath everything, the monster in him finding satisfaction in holding the man he loves close to him, even if it is only through the bits and pieces of his victims. Will distantly wonders if he should eat them, get rid of the evidence, and consume Hannibal’s gift all at once, when it hits him.  
  
This bit horrifies him distantly, in the way he knows anyone else would have been screaming in terror.  
  
The Chesapeake Ripper eats his victims. Visions of grandiose dinners and luscious meals spill into his mind, and at the forefront of them all, sits Hannibal with amused eyes as he brings the meat up to his mouth, spilling into satisfaction when Will compliments him with a groan.  
  
His hands fly up to his neck, and he distantly feels his nails dig into the tender flesh, as if they could rid of all the human flesh that has fell down his throat. Will desperately wants to tear it all out and erase his brain of all the things he knows now. He hates it, except that he doesn’t really, and that’s what h Eventually his neck begins to sting, and when he pulls his fingers back, they are stained a vivid red, shining with a mixture of his blood and tears.  
  
He starts crying again, overwhelmed by the bile in his throat and the laughter uncurling in his chest.  
  
Laughter unwillingly falls from his mouth, and he watches disconnected as his reflection turns red from a lack of oxygen, as hysterical pained laughs escape his lungs. It’s so unfunny and yet all Will can think of is the puns, all the awful jokes the older man would make at dinner. He wonders why he doesn’t feel any impending doom, and he searches for the guilt that should be there right about there. When he finds nothing, another bout of laughter escapes him, and the brittle bones trapped in his hand crack alongside his mind.  
  
He eventually calms down a bit and looks down at the wisps of hair clenched in his palm, then back up at his unfamiliar grin, and he wonders if this is how it feels to go insane.  
  
-  
  
Eventually, Will has to go back to real life, and he disposes of any evidence that Hannibal placed in an old fish freezer, and buries it at one of his old holes. It isn’t the safest spot, but for now the immediate threat is gone, and Will can think straight without bones luring him into unsavory thoughts.  
  
He regains some sense of control after that, and while in no way does it stop thrilling him, Will must pay. He returns to his cycle, of working hard days and nights, crawling back to his hole, and tearing into his skin for some piece of mind that no longer exists.  
  
It’s grounding now, a punishment turned relief, and he wonders when his pain became so normalized that the cuts into his skin no longer feel like torture.  
  
He hurts and feels sweet salvation coating his tongue as his blood slips from his body, and he is so ruined now, he wonders if he will ever be okay again.  
  
He visits Abigail, and they smile bitter-sweet little grimaces at each other, and when Will sees no new lines marring her body, he feels empty relief.  
  
How easy it is to feel for her, to see her get better, and yet it stings to be left alone in his ruination and see someone get better. Still, Abigail smiles more, and the visits where Hannibal tags along are pleasant enough to let Will forget everything awful for a while. He thinks of family, and glances at Abigail’s arm curled around Hannibal’s, how Hannibal stares at them both with warm affection, and how Will feels like he belongs. It feels closer to a family then anything else in Will’s life, and he holds onto it with a desperation that must be achingly obvious.  
  
He also sees Hannibal stare at him alone, with an inexplicable hunger and something softer too, something that makes Will ache for things he shouldn’t want.  
  
Will knows Hannibal feels something for him, borderline obsession tinting his actions, and yet he does nothing to stop it, letting the man in time and time again.  
  
He hates that he wants Hannibal after everything he has done, that he can’t even blame him personally for his actions. It is not Will’s duty to take the fall for Hannibal’s wrongdoings, and he does it anyways, desperate to hurt and half out of love.  
  
It makes things worse when he is left alone, once again becoming a pitiful broken thing.  
  
He does not think of how easy it would be to force his guilt and sins onto others, kill them in his stead, and instead buckles down on his own pain.  
  
When the knife connects with his bicep, a new piece of skin to ruin, Will giggles, cross wired and wrong, and absolutely ruined.  
  
-  
  
Will has been haunted for a long time. Past victims of crimes he couldn’t solve soon enough, or pitiful mistakes of his that follow him around with their sad eyes and bitter words. He is used to his mind not being quite his own, and yet this is something completely different.  
  
When the dark specter begins to follow him around, sleek horns glinting menacingly in the light, he knows that somehow Hannibal has gotten further into his skin. He knows it’s a reflection of the man, can see the similar bone structure and the piercing glare the wendigo gives him at times is all too like Hannibal himself.  
  
Some part of him, the young boy who still believed in restitution for his soul, is appalled at these visions. It is not something normal people take in stride, but Will is far from normal, and the last thing he should be worrying about is some imagined monster crawling through the depths of his mind.  
  
It is strange though, to see a physical piece of Hannibal follow him around and haunt his dreams. Part of him should be scared. Worried that the darker influences of the older man will begin to break him down, but he knows that he is already doomed to fail.  
  
He doubts it matters when he breaks now.  
  
-  
  
Hannibal places the bag in front of him, nondescript and brown, during one of his visits to Will’s classrooms.  
  
“What’s this?” He quietly asks, all too aware of the lingering students who are staring at the two of them from behind the door. He shoots them a glare and they do better at pretending they aren’t listening to their conversation.  
  
“It’s something I had prescribed for you. I think it will help you Will.” Hannibal’s tone is warm and casual, and yet all Will can focus on is the shaking of his hands as he peers into the bag. He sees a bottle of pills at the bottom, and glances at the label for a long moment before slamming it onto the desk with frustration.  
  
He tries to keep the irritation out of his posture, and he knows he fails when he sees Hannibal smirk slightly, small enough to not be noticeable if Will were anyone else.  
  
“I’m not that.” His voice comes out shakier than he’d like, and Hannibal fixes him with an unimpressed stare.  
  
“Not what?”  
  
Will glances at the peering eyes who watch him with barely hidden fascination, and he sighs.  
  
“Sad. Depressed. Whatever you think I am, it’s not that.” A few gasps echo into the shared space between them, and Will snaps, turning towards the shadows lurking in his room to yell. “Fuck off or I will take points off your grades!” He yells, and tries not to be frustrated when they yelp, and run off with irritated mutters.  
  
Hannibal makes a tsking sound, and Will wrenches his eyes away from his door to give the man a stony glare as well. Unfortunately, it just makes the man look fond, and Will gives up with a frown and stares at his feet instead.  
  
“But you are unhappy.” Hannibal presses, and he tries not to grit his teeth so obviously. “While you haven’t gotten a genuine diagnosis, most psychiatrists would agree with me. The medicine might help you.” His tone is soft and placating, and the most irritating thing Will has heard all day.  
  
“Oh yes, I always agree with what psychiatrists have to say about me.” He feels remarkably unimpressed by this all, and he grabs the bag, shoving it in the doctor’s chest with a snarl. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me or think you can fix me. It won’t work.”  
  
Hannibal gives him an unreadable look then, long and piercing, and Will tries his best to return it, despite knowing that these stare downs never end well.  
  
“If you say so.” He eventually says, quiet and unsure, and for a second Will thinks that he might have offended Hannibal. Hurt his feelings and denied his care. But then he remembers who the creature before him truly is, and he feels a small burn of satisfaction crawl up his throat at messing with the man.  
  
And yet, his brain feels conflicted now, opened by the conversation and curious as to whether medication would help. He has had prescriptions before, ones for ADHD and schizophrenia, but they never did much besides make him high. He wonders if getting medication that better matches how he feels would help at all.  
  
Will refuses to believe he is depressed, and yet Hannibal is right. All the visible signs he gives, lack of appetite, fatigue, a general air of unhappiness, all point to some form of depression. He knows he needs help, but it scares him.  
  
The idea of being helped, and made to feel better, only to find out his sick thoughts are still there will destroy him. He would rather stay in his tragic ruination and die a slow death, and his nails dig into his thighs, an answer of sorts, sharp and unrelenting. He must make a noise of some sort because Hannibal’s eyes dip down to where his fingers lie, and narrow with concerned suspicion.  
  
With a panicked ease, he puts on a face, one of embarrassment and sorrow, and tries to smile at Hannibal.  
  
“You know what? The worst that can happen is that they don’t work.” He says softly, and peels the bag back from Hannibal’s fingers, chuckling in amusement when the older man’s nostrils flare. His eyes trail back up to Will’s, and yet his face still carries the concern from before. Will smiles again, this time more effective, because Hannibal smiles slightly back, the corners of his lips tilting in recognition.  
  
“Thank you Will. You know I have your best interests in mind.” The man says, and Will does his best not to laugh at his statement. Dead bodies and betrayal flicker behind his eyelids, and he represses them with a sharp chuckle, riddled with a sharp fear that Hannibal can probably smell on him.  
  
If Hannibal can sense his anxiety about the situation, or the drying blood still sticking to his skin from this morning, he says nothing of the sort and simply smiles once more, before jingling his keys.  
  
“How about lunch? My treat of course.” Hannibal offers and Will nods in agreement, staring at the pills in his hands, guilt churning in his stomach. Addiction runs in his family and he wonders if this is how he’ll meet his end, popping a few pills too many.  
  
Hannibal grins then, truly happy and open, and it hurts less then it usually does, so Will smiles back.  
  
He places the paper bag into his duffel and does his best to ignore the temptation.  
  
After all, death will always be waiting for him, what’s a few moments more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will concerns me lol. Hope you guys had a good day and are staying healthy and safe :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for suicidal ideation and mentions of self harm. same old jazz but i figured it might help.

The thing is, Will would be better off if he hated this. That is where all his problems lie really. Instead of a building disgust in this throat at the sight of this all, it takes all his strength to tear his eyes away, swallow the hunger that builds up in his throat.  
  
The hunger, desperation for blood is worse now, and Will knows that before long he will break. It will be a beautiful becoming, dark and awful, and everything Will has ever feared.  
  
Will shakes away the killer from his head and tries to flee away.  
  
He takes a few steps back and lets himself shake, hears the worried calls of Jack from behind him and a strong arm gripping his shoulder. It angers him, desperately so, and he holds him self back with another sigh escaping his mouth, and he lets himself open his eyes.  
  
Will looks up from where Jack gingerly laid him down and watching him back are hazel blood tinged eyes. Hannibal Lecter stares down at the mess he is, an imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, and the satisfaction in his pose is enough to get Will’s blood boiling. He can see it now, a mirror image of the crime scene he is currently contaminating, sees a violent thrust of his knife into the soft divot of the back of Hannibal’s skull. Imagines tearing his body limb from limb, creating a puppet in ode to this killer he is supposed to catch, and yet he knows something Jack doesn’t.  
  
He can taste the blood in his mouth, and the adrenaline shaking his body, and for a moment he wonders if it really wasn’t him who put this body here. But then Hannibal says his name, and Will’s attention is refocused on the culprit of this all.  
  
Will’s eyes trace Hannibal’s hands, soft and sure of their placements on Will’s shoulders, and all he can see now is the blood on the man’s hands. The Ripper has stuck again, and he wonders whether it gets Hannibal off, sitting at his own crime scene and seeing the very man he is supposed to protect break. Hannibal is a sick vile creature, and Will still loves him.  
  
He closes his eyes and takes another deep breath.  
  
-  
  
Eventually, Will gets a bit better. Levels out his emotions to a controllable level, where he isn’t a sweaty mess constantly. The long stares and whispered conversations behind his back stop for a while, and for the first time in a while, he feels like he can breathe.  
  
He wonders in that distinct way where he already knows the answer, whether or nor his lungs should feel icy cold, burning with each breath he takes. His shaky desperation to fall asleep, and escape this world is increasingly common, and he hurts so much.  
  
It’s not normal. But he doesn’t know how to be anything else.  
  
He still hurts, and he knows the deep disgust and fear that are in his gut will never disappear. Still looks in the mirror and sees the monster of his dreams edging him on. It won’t be long now, before he snaps, and it will be beautiful. That is what should frighten him, and for once he is.  
  
But for now, he feels okay.  
  
He wonders if he should feel so sad that he is getting better. He should want to feel better, to get the demons out of his head, and yet he feels so connected to it, that it hurts to feel it slip away. He wonders if he’ll ever be normal, free from this all.  
  
It’s another resounding no, and it makes him wonder how much longer he can get away with hurting himself like this.  
  
His eyes catch on the mirror of his car, and bloodshot blues stare back at him, tired and helpless.  
  
Will looks away, something awful pressing at the base of his throat.  
  
-  
  
The acidic burn of smoke becomes a habit of his, one that he desperately hides with strong aftershave, and lots of showers. He knows that he could just smoke and let people smell it, but it feels strange to let people know, especially since he rarely uses it for its proper purpose.  
  
It is ironic, that cigarettes constantly kill people, and yet they are the very things that keep him away from death.  
  
He takes his beat up lighter, and lights a cigarette with shaking hands, watching the dim glow begin with a grin. His thighs itch, and he lets him bask in the cool breeze and the sun on his skin. He feels okay, and he knows the euphoria he will feel after him will keep him on a high for the rest of the day.  
  
“I wasn’t aware you smoked.” A voice tells him unexpectedly, and Will does his best not to yelp and fall out of his seat. He turns to find Hannibal staring at him, eyebrows furrowed and eyes a shade to concerned to be real. Will is curious as to whether how much of what Hannibal shows is real, and how much is just his grand power to manipulate people. Hannibal’s eyes drag down to his legs with a pursed mouth, and he sees a glint of arousal flash through the older man’s eyes.  
  
It makes him less uncomfortable than he should be, and it is not nearly as worrisome as it usually is. For a moment it feels nice to be wanted, even if it is distantly, by a horrible, awful beast of a man.  
  
He is suddenly all too aware of the state of his thighs, and he tugs on his boxer shorts so that they cover up the worst of the damage.  
  
“I don’t.” Will replies, and the older man shoots him a look of bemusement, eyes flickering from the cigarette his hand and then back to Will’s face. “I don’t do it often.” Will amends and tries his best to not flinch when Hannibal comes closer and leans against the porch railing.  
  
“I often smell it on you at our appointments, but it’s a dull old thing.” Hannibal says, still watching Will with knowing eyes, and Will nods because he doesn’t know what else he could do.  
  
“Yeah. It’s a stress reliefer of sorts.” He laughs awkwardly and motions towards his lungs with an aborted movement when Hannibal’s eyes darken slightly. “My job will kill me eventually, so I see no use in prolonging it.”  
  
Will knows he said the wrong thing when Hannibal’s brow hardens, and his lips thin into thinly veiled distaste.  
  
“Your lack of value for your life is appalling Will.” He pauses, and gingerly sits into an empty chair near him, and it brings Will distant amusement to see his expensive suit lay in such a filthy chair. He wonders if it’s too mean to wish that his clothes get ruined, as some sort of retribution for all the pain Hannibal has caused him. Inadvertently or not, Hannibal has been cruel, and it takes its toll on Will’s fragile mind.  
  
“When did you start smoking?” Hannibal asks, and Will then remembers that he is supposed to be smoking, so he takes a drag, and does his best not to cough it up immediately. Out of the corner of his eyes, Hannibal is staring intently at his lips, and for once, his attention doesn’t feel good at all. It burns him, and Will feels like he is slowly being unraveled, one secret at a time.  
  
He takes another drag and tries not to ache for the sweet ashy burn on his skin. Instead he takes another drag and lets out the smoke in a shaky sigh. Will shrugs and looks away, as if embarrassed.  
  
“Since I was a teenager. Dad constantly had them, and it was an easy habit to pick up.” Will lies as smoothly as he can, and when Hannibal nods with curious eyes, he continues his story. “And I like how it feels in my lungs.”  
  
“Did you pick it up because of your issues with you father? As some sort of unconscious revenge to the lack of attention he gave you?” Hannibal questions, far too serious for his own good, and it makes Will laugh, doubling over in his chair as he begins to wheeze. A strong hand plucks the cigarette out of his hand, and Will manages to control himself enough to look up at Hannibal.  
  
The man is peering down at him with bemused but fond eyes, and it makes Will grin helplessly back. It seems that even when he wants control, he can never have it with him. And yet, as the months go by, Will finds himself hating it less and less.  
  
“Careful Will you’ll burn yourself.” Hannibal says softly, earning himself another snort, and the returning glare Will gets is enough to set him off into laughter again. He leans against Hannibal’s shoulder for a short moment, uncharacteristically fond, and the returning look he gets, blank and surprised all the same makes it worth it.  
  
Hannibal snaps out of it quick enough though, and to Will’s surprise he takes a cursory sniff of the cigarette before wrapping his lips around it and breathing in, a short quick puff before pulling back with distaste.  
  
“These are poor quality.”  
  
“And you would know?” Will asks with a chuckle, watching Hannibal take another drag with a furrowed brow. It is a pleasant sight, the dim summer sunlight making his features sharp and his hair glow. The smoke slowly trails out of the man’s mouth, and he makes smoking look oddly pretty.  
  
Hannibal grins and flicks the ashes into the bucket next to him, a smooth movement that draws Will’s eyes to the pale skin of the man’s wrist.  
  
“I smoke every once and a while. Though the muck these puts in the lungs leaves something to be desired.” He takes another drag, and Will lets himself sit in the silence, eyes tracing the man’s figure with growing apprehension. It is hard to not think of what the man is planning, and for a moment Will wants to spill all his secrets and let himself be done with, dying by Hannibal’s quick and sure hands. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but it is close enough to a happy death to accept.  
  
Death becomes an overwhelming presence in his mind, and it drags his mood down, tearing his eyes away from the other man.  
  
Will shakes his head and looks off into the horizon, towards the fading sun. Everything feels worse when the light disappears, and Will can feel that now, a burning presence in his mind and a distant wish for everything to blur and fade away. He feels Hannibal’s eyes on him, noticing the changed atmosphere with a questioning noise.  
  
Will feels so stupid being so easily changed, and yet he still feels awful, a pale comparison to the near content feeling in his gut moments ago.  
  
“Are you alright Will?” It is asked softly, after a long moment of silence, and he turns his head to look at Hannibal. He shrugs and plucks the cigarette back from the man’s hand and sucks on it until his lungs burn. The burn feels good, in his gaping dark chest, desperate for oxygen that isn’t so tainted.  
  
He doubts he deserves anything more than this, so he sits through the ache and doesn’t let it control him.  
  
“Yeah. I’m doing okay.” He answers and the pointed silence is enough to have him squirming. He feels Hannibal’s eyes catch on his bare legs and the long coat covering his arms. It feels accusing and knowing, and out of desperation Will repeats himself. “I am fine Hannibal. Don’t worry.” Hannibal gives a hum in response, distant and faint, and Will looks at the older man out of the corner of his eye. Hannibal is looking out at the distant trees with a frown on his features, and Will looks away ashamed.  
  
His lies coat his tongue, and they taste unbearably bitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my favorite bit yet, and i feel like the prose has improved. idk let me know! 
> 
> also will is a silly horny sad man and he needs to get his priorities straight.
> 
> as always stay safe!


	6. Chapter 6

Eventually, his lies catch up to him. There is only so many times Will can lie about himself and maintain some sort of appearance. He is lucky enough to have always been strange, enough that when his behavior starts to change, it goes unnoticed.  
  
Until it does, with long glances and conversations behind his back. Quieted words when he enters the room, and careful hands, worrying that he will break. He feels unstable, shaky, and frightening, and when he prowls crime scenes, he tries his best to not notice how everyone gives him more room to work. Will catches Zeller whispering something ugly about him one day, and it doesn’t dawn on him how angry he is until the coffee cup in his hand breaks, spilling burning liquid all over his hand. He shoots a dark look to everyone peering at him with wide eyes, and storms off, blood filling his mouth as he bites his tongue.  
  
Even Hannibal, manipulative and cruel behind his human persona, has backed off, watching him with curious but worried eyes. Will hates to think of how awful he must be, to make a man who seems to feel nothing feel something for him. But Will knows something is there, brewing in the space between them, and if Will were to reach out and ask, Hannibal would give him anything.  
  
This sort of terrible devotion creates a heady feeling in his chest, and for a moment he wonders if Hannibal would kill someone for him. He knows without a moment to think on it that he would, and it would be sick and gorgeous, and everything that they have ever wanted.  
  
Will should have known Jack would get involved, even if he hates to think about anyone caring about him. Because unfortunately, people do care, even if it is weak and out of pity, they care, and he is breaking.  
  
So, when Jack calls him over, tone softer than normal, he knows that when he was pretending to be okay, Will almost let himself believe it. Figures that Jack’s authority would be a cold splash of water, making him ache in horror and guilt of how stupid he has been.  
  
He wants to be more careful, but he can’t remember why he should be. That itself is a testament to how low he has fallen.  
  
It is not often that Will lets himself go to Quantico willing, let alone Jack’s office, but he finds himself here anyways, half against his will and another half out of morbid curiosity. Like a child who knows their parent is dead just around the corner, and yet they peak anyways, unable to help themselves. Though he supposes perhaps that most children wouldn’t do that, and it might just be his jumbled morals and inclinations to think about death.  
  
He remembers a distinct conversation with a previous psychologist about this, his easy visions of death by his own hands, back when he was still working for the force. He had thrown it out there, to see what the man would say back, and when he finally had the courage to look up in the stilted silence, he was faced with a apprehensive fear crawling on his psychologist’s face. He had thought perhaps detailing how he would kill the man sitting across from him wasn’t a good introduction, but he was never good at keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t allowed to go back, and while Will enjoyed the lack of prodding at his brain, it was disquieting to see how easily he could freak people out.  
  
People always say he is frightening and unhinged, and Will wonders when he will finally start believing it.  
  
But either way, he is here, peering around the corners with wide eyes and shaky hands. He hates it here, being in a place that does nothing but remind him of how low he is fallen. Jack does not make it any easier, with his gruff voice and ever watching gaze.  
  
Jack is like a parent in that regard, overbearing and superior in every way. There was a time where Will was tiredly fond of the man, but as the year goes on, and Jack becomes more and more insistent, it has faded into a dull reluctance, an admittance that they share the same space. Somewhere between plane flights and early morning shitty coffee, Will has lost his respect for the man, and he wonders if this feeling will grow onto law enforcement. If it will become tainted like everything else in his life, until all he has left is a desperate bitterness and an uncontrollable anger towards the world.  
  
If one day, he will enter his classroom, and see eager tired faces staring back at him, and he will just know. That he has fallen, and it is apparent.  
  
He can feel it begin already, and he wonders, if this is just a reflection of Hannibal’s uglier traits sticking to him or his own thoughts changing and growing. Empathy will always be a disease for him, and at this moment he hates it immensely, unable to decipher who and what he truly feels. The sickly pale boy of his past wouldn’t let this happen; he would have done better. And it makes it so much harder to face himself now when he does not know who he is or who he should be.  
  
It would make things easier if he knew how to feel.  
  
When Jack enters his office and gives him the look, the one that says I feel pity for you because you look like death and yet I refuse to show it because I doubt you’ll listen. He gets it a lot, in increasing amounts lately, and he does his best not to feel so brittle when Jack does it to his face. It’s an exposed nerve, and everyone seems to know just where to hit him, enough to hurt but not enough to push him over the ledge.  
  
Jack mutters a greeting and passes by Will with slow leisurely footsteps. He smells like the dead, a crime scene and a morgue combined as one, and it is a familiar scent, one that manages to calm Will’s nerves. The man sits down with a huff, and Will watches him with tired eyes, desperate for coffee that doesn’t taste like dirt water. Jack watches him back, awkward silence filling the air for a moment too long, before Will smiles, a pale shaky sort of thing. It is a sick smile, and it feel rotten on his face, the way it makes Jack freeze, eyebrows furrowing in thought.  
  
“So, Will how have you been?” He tries and Will gives him a snort in response.  
  
He doesn’t know how to explain that he is breaking, falling to darker depths, and most nights he feels like a ghost without a knife digging into his skin. Or that pain is the only thing he consciously searches out, and every time he feels something like happiness, he feels unworthy and desperately guilty. Will hasn’t been okay for a while, so there is no use explaining that he is even worse now.  
  
“Fine. How are you?” He asks back because its polite, and if you’re polite with Jack he is more likely to let you go early. It would be easier for the both of them if Will leaves, one less death on Jack’s weary conscious and one less person in Will’s life destroy. He does his best to look at Jack, but his eyes eventually stray away to glance into his cup, looking for answers in the grinds that lay helpless at the bottom.  
  
“I’m doing good.” Jack responds and Will sees him look away for a moment, and it hits him then, that they are both lying to each other. It is ironic in the worst of ways, that they have strayed so far away from each other, that they feel the need to lie. “I would be better if you told me what is wrong with you.” The man tacks it on last minute, and it is so unsubtle that it makes Will laugh.  
  
“I am tired Jack. But you already know that, so what are you really asking?”  
  
“You have been off. I want to know if it will impact your work.” Ah, so he is concerned that his tool will break before he gets a proper use of it. Will finds the ever-present anger bubbling in his stomach, and something akin to a snarl crawls up his throat. He wonders how he can get out of this conversation with his friendship with Jack still intact, because they are friends, no matter how ugly and reluctant they have become.  
  
“You’re not my father Jack, quit worrying.” Will eventually says, unsure if the words coming out of his mouth are the ones he is actually saying. It must be something close to it though because Jack leans back, with some sort of hurt lingering on the edges of his eyes. It gives Will an amused thrill of pleasure, and he continues, angry and despondent, and so tired. “Are you afraid that you are breaking me? Even though you have been told repeatedly that this job isn’t good for me. You don’t care, not about me at least. This is just you are making sure your pet will survive another day.” His voice sounds bitter and dark, but he feels the corners of his mouth tip up into an uneven smile.  
  
Something strikes him as familiar in his words, and he takes a quick moment to wonder how Hannibal’s opinions of Jack began to bleed into his own.  
  
Jack is still, and his dark eyes track the edges of Will’s face, lingering on his shaky smile and dark circles. His gaze feels suffocating to Will, and for a moment he thinks of how easy it would be to kill the man, lunge across the desk and strangle him. But he eyes Jack’s arms and strong shoulders, and envisions his own death instead, dying from blood loss on the carpet, as his boss stands above him with disappointed eyes.  
  
His hands shake, and he places them in his lap, all too aware of how Jack sees them and the almost scared expression that flashes through his eyes.  
  
“You smell like blood Will. It lingers on you, and I am making sure that you don’t become the very thing you’re hunting.” Jack says eventually, taking a sip out of his coffee, and slamming it down with a thunk. The sound makes him jump, and with wide eyes he looks back to Jack’s face to find him standing up above him, arms folded.  
  
It irks him, in a familiar scent from his childhood, and it frustrates him to being treated so fragile and breakable. No matter how much its warranted, Will cannot appreciate it, not when its so blatantly obvious.  
  
“Why?” Will asks, a smirk playing on his lips, leaning backward in his chair. “Are you worried that you’ll be my first victim?” It’s eerily silent after that, and Will’s jaw snaps closed with poorly restrained horror. Jack steps around the desk and lunges towards him, hands reaching out to grip the lapels of his jacket. Will stares up at him, blood flooding his mouth as he bites his tongue, as if it could keep him from saying anything else.  
  
The man’s touch feels knowing and oppressive, and he can feel the ache in his chest growing, with a panicked swiftness.  
  
“Don’t talk to me like that Will. I’ll give you ten seconds to rethink what you said.” Jack whispers, and Will knows he crossed a line. But he can’t find it in himself to forgive Jack or redeem himself. He shakes his head frantically and reaches upwards to yank himself out of the older man’s grip.  
  
Will feels sick to the bone, and it’s so unbearably ugly.  
  
“Don’t touch me.” He snarls and nearly trips as he scrambles out of his chair. Jack watches him with an angry frown, hands twitchy and trying to keep themselves. Will continues backing up towards the door, eyes never leaving the floor. “Stop trying to make me something I am not Jack.” He murmurs, and shoves the door open, and disappears behind it.  
  
He ignores the calls of his name, and speed walks his way out, pulse throbbing and chest thrumming with anxiety. He knows he messed up, and eventually he will have to fix things, but not yet. Not when he can’t control the words falling out of his mouth, or the lingering presence of a mind that is not his own crawling around his head.  
  
And despite it all, something about Jack being hurt and fearful makes Will smile, and he ignores the strange stares he gets from people he passes. His smile feels so wrong, like something that doesn’t fit quite right, but he’ll grow into it, he always does.  
  
With an anxious giggle he enters the summer sun and basks in something akin to a becoming.  
  
-  
  
Hannibal approaches him one night, after a delicious dinner, filled with heavy stares and barely controlled amusement from both parties. Strong hands fall to grip his shoulders, and Will lets his own hands travel up to grip them, smiling at the small gasp Hannibal tries to hide. He cranes his head to look behind him, and he smiles, a questioning thing at Hannibal’s soft gaze.  
  
“Will, have you ever tried marijuana?” It is a sudden question, but obviously something Hannibal has thought about enough to ask him outright, and Will does his best to hide his shock with a laugh.  
  
“Weed Hannibal? Really?”  
  
“It is a good stress reliever, and it has its medical benefits. Besides, it would be better than the filth you currently fill your lungs with.” Hannibal’s tone is warm and amused, most likely at the apparent derision on Will’s face, and it’s enough to make Will turn in his seat to look at the man. The motion makes the warm hands on him fall away, and its an easy thing to miss, so when Will makes a soft whine in the back of his throat, the hands return to stroke his neck and face.  
  
Will does not give any thought to how needy or apparent he is about this, because he knows eventually, he will feel guilty and pay for it, but he is selfish enough to allow this for himself. The pain and atonement can come later when Hannibal’s addicting presence is farther away.  
  
Though he hardly knows how to address the fact that he doesn’t smoke, not really, without revealing the aching circles that adorn his thighs or the sharp lines on his arms. He knows that Hannibal suspects something, but the longer he can go without that conversation, the better. So, he stays silent.  
  
“So, where would an esteemed doctor like yourself gain access to this?” Will questions, and smirks at the wrinkle of annoyance that appears at Hannibal’s nose before it fades away into the cooler mask of indifference that he is used to.  
“It is easily acquired when you have the means and motive. And I happen to have patients who will readily give me anything if it means I give them the time of day.”  
  
“Sounds like fun, manipulating your patients to give you drugs. Hardly ethical now is it Doctor Lecter?” Hannibal makes a little huffing noise and Will smiles, enjoying the small banter between them.  
  
“Well, it is beneficial.” Hannibal eventually manages, though his eyes still have a pinched look to them, one that he gets when ever Will refuses to comply immediately. “It’s not my favorite pastime though.” He adds as if it would help the new image Will is creating in his mind, building on the already complicated profile he has on the man. Eventually Will lets himself laugh, and Hannibal smiles back, unsure, and slightly placating.  
  
“What is it Will?”  
  
“I am just thinking about how people would react to the esteemed Doctor Lecter smoking pot. It is horrifying, to be completely honest.”  
  
Hannibal makes an offended face, and sniffs imperiously, which only makes Will laugh more.  
  
“I was young once Will. Besides its useful for certain social situations.” Will thinks of a high Hannibal, giddily running parties while maintaining an air of perfection, all the while being completely stoned. He lets himself wonder if he changes when under the influence if he gets hungrier or unbearably horny. The thought makes him blush, and Hannibal’s eyes on him just makes it worse. Will clears his throat and gestures to Hannibal, trying to divert his attention.  
  
“So where is it?” Will asks, and Hannibal imperceptibly brightens, a smile gracing his features for a quick moment. He watches as Hannibal leaves the room and reenters with a platter of brownies, an amused look on his face.  
  
“I thought perhaps it would be easier with food, and I have been told I make exceptional desserts.”  
  
“Didn’t take you for an edible guy.” Will mutters and reaches over to pick a piece up, smiling at the rich chocolatey scent that fills his nostrils. He takes a small bite, and groans at the sweet taste, amazed at how the older man can make even the silliest of dishes delicious. Hannibal watches him with sharp, knowing eyes, and Will makes a gesture to the platter, wanting him to eat some too.  
  
Hannibal shakes his head, and crosses his legs, a furrow growing between his eyes.  
  
“These are for you Will, I am here as a friend and someone sober enough to aid you if you need help.” It is not quite a lie, but Will can tell Hannibal has other motives. At that very moment though he couldn’t care less, so he smiles instead taking another small bite of the brownie in his hand.  
  
Hannibal smiles and continues watching him, eyes dark and fixated on his mouth. Eventually a warm calming feeling begins to take over him, he laughs and lets out a small sigh of relief.  
  
“Thank goodness. I thought these were poisoned or something, with the way you were looking at me.”  
  
“Hardly, I am just enjoying this moment with you. I would never do something like that to you.” Hannibal says innocently and Will nods as if he believes him. Hannibal sips from his wine glass, and Will watches as his throat moves around the liquid, strangely desperate to taste the man’s skin. He takes a drink from his own glass instead and begins to remark on a crime scene he saw today, ignoring the way Hannibal becomes far more interested when he mentions the Ripper.  
  
“I think we will catch him soon. Jack wants him caught, and when that man is yelling at you, it is the biggest motivator in the world.” Will says, ignoring how Hannibal’s hands tighten around the chair’s arms. “Besides, the Ripper has to mess up eventually, he is human like the rest of us.” Even as he says it, it feels like a lie, Hannibal is anything but human, a creature forged in darkness and it feels like an injustice to compare him to the lowly creatures that walk this Earth. But he doesn’t take it back, instead staring into his wine glass, feely dizzy and guilty.  
  
He shouldn’t feel guilty about wanting to trap the Ripper, but as he looks at his friend in front of him, he forgets why he should want the man locked up.  
  
“I am confident that you will be able to do it. The Ripper’s victims deserve justice.” Hannibal says, eyes dark and focused on Will, and Will smiles a shade too knowing.  
  
“Yes, they do. Don’t they Hannibal?” He asks, not really wanting an answer, and instead watches the man, all his secrets building up in his throat.  
  
Hannibal’s eyes glint meanly, and Will looks away, not ready to face how wrong this all is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where the weed scene came from, it wrote itself. I am headcanoning that Hannibal has a weed garden lmao Beyond that I hope this was an okay update! Its a bit happier, but I want Will to heal (sort of) before I break him lol. Hope you all enjoy and stay safe!!


	7. Chapter 7

Sometimes, Will takes a reprieve in the simpler aspects in his life. Lets himself drown in them and be blissfully unaware of how fucked everything else has become. Fishing used to be that for him, a sweet exercise that made his brain hurt less, but it feels tainted now, too reminiscent of his bloodthirst. Fishing and hunting are far too similar for him to ignore their connections, and at times like these, where his brain can’t shut up, he wonders when he will start hunting.  
  
Hannibal gives him dark appraising looks now, and he feels exposed, as if every dark thought of his is on blast for the world to see.  
  
He wants Hannibal to see him, but the thought is daunting and sickening, and far too much to deal with.  
  
Because of this, he tries to actively seek out pain instead. It hurts and leaves its marks, but it is something he can control, and use to quiet the voices in his head. So, he cuts, and drinks, and lights far too many cigarettes, all the while letting monsters further into his head. It is not safe or sane, but at least he is the only ugly thing in his life not pretending to be.  
  
Sometimes, he goes to Abigail, in hopes that seeing her growth will make him feel better. Or perhaps he wants to feel worse, seeing one of his mistakes in physical form. Guilt runs through his head, and Garret Jacob Hobbs will smile at him through his rear-view mirror, until he can pull over and smash it into the ground. It hardly makes him feel better, his chest heavy and empty all at once, but seeing something destroyed puts his mind at ease.  
  
And he can’t see ghosts if he refuses to see.  
  
He feels disgusting and awful, especially when she runs towards him with a sunny smile and hugs him, her warmth reminding him of how cold he has become. And yet when she talks to him, about silly insignificant things, it still feels better than anything else. Abigail is not his daughter, not by blood, but its there in their interactions, lying between the lines. He does not deserve a child, but he looks at her, sees the way she can be so, so cruel, and thinks that perhaps they deserve each other.  
  
“I just think it is stupid that they still make me do group therapy, even when I have outright refused to go to the sessions.” Abigail complains, before running slightly ahead of Will to pluck a small yellow flower from the earth. She holds it out to him, and he manages a smile, holding it between shaking fingers.  
  
It’s a lovely color in the fading light, and Will distantly wonders whether it would taste like the happiness he is searching for. If he let it lay on his hungry tongue, would it quench the self-loathing and bitter loneliness that runs the chaos that is his mind. He likes to think it would, and he is tempted to ruin Abigail’s gift before it tempts him into false hope. Happiness is not his to own.  
  
Happiness would be allowed if it were anything besides a red tint, and an iron aftertaste crawling down his throat, hands shaking with his sins.  
  
“I hardly blame you. But I have heard that it helps the healing process to hear other people’s suffering. Something about a take and give, and how it makes it easier when you aren’t the only person flailing under life’s harsh weight.” He explains, distaste for any sort of therapy coloring his words, and she smiles at him, a soft amused thing.  
  
“Why don’t you do group therapy then?”  
  
“Do I look like I go to group therapy?” He asks bemused, and he feels Abigail give him an apprising look before laughing.  
  
“No, you’d scare them all off.” She says, and Will freezes slightly, her words biting at that harsh insecurity that lies in his brain. Abigail seems to notice because she slows down too, bumping her shoulder into his arm.  
  
“Am I?” He asks and at her confused stare, he reiterates with a nervous laugh. “Am I scary?” He hates how easily set off he is, and he wonders if therefore Will of the past never made friends. They hurt you far too much, and in turn you can hurt them too. He would love to say he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone, but even that is a lie gone too far.  
  
He looks down at his hands and finds the flower, crushed and dead, unable to survive under his harsh grip.  
  
“No of course not!” Abigail exclaims, before looking slightly sheepish. “But you do come off very strongly to strangers, and if I didn’t now you, I’d think you were some sort of creep.” She jokes but after seeing his flat expression, she frowns and kicks her shoes in the dirt beneath her.  
  
He doesn’t know why it hurts so much to hear because it’s true. He is a freak, cold and snappish, and all sorts of deranged. Still, there is some sort of expectation, that society won’t point out how awful you are to your face. Figures that Abigail wouldn’t follow that courtesy.  
  
“I’m not.” He starts and then laughs a little at Abigail peeking up at him, as if a scolded child. “I am not mad; I know I can be freaky.” Will says and Abigail makes a face at that, as if her brain went somewhere else with that word, which makes him laugh harder.  
  
“Not that kind of freaky.” He wonders the ethics of inappropriate conversations with someone who is your daughter in all regards except name.  
  
“How so then?”  
  
“I see your dad in my dreams Abigail.” He says suddenly, and he looks away from her widening eyes for a moment, if just to gather his thoughts. “He haunts my sleep, and he follows him to crime scenes, and when I arrive home, he is waiting for me on my couch, with empty eyes.” Will says with a dry throat, because admitting this out loud makes it sound worse than it really is.  
  
He sees ghosts, bloody and degraded, and it has become so normal, that Will has forgotten that he is anything but.  
  
She gives him a look that is less horrified than it should be, and Will feels her piercing gaze upon him, even when he looks away, hands shaking.  
  
“Who else crawls in you head?” She asks, scarily intuitive, and she sounds just like Hannibal in that moment, that it sends shivers down his spine.  
  
“Anyone. Everyone. People I have failed to save.” Abigail nods, and smiles reassuringly, so he continues, “People I’ve thought I killed. People I’ve wanted to kill.” He admits, and for an achingly long moment afterwards, all is silent. Then Abigail laughs, a relieved, manic cackle, that shakes her thin frame, and its enough to shake Will out of his self-pity.  
  
“He was right wasn’t he.” She says, and Will won’t ask who she’s talking about, they both know who’d be foolish enough to believe Will has thoughts like this. This has been coming for a while, and he wonders, if he had not been so broken, so ugly, if he would have caught this all. Or if he’d be oblivious to it all.  
  
“The Ripper is in my head so often, that he is a part of me. He feels so close.” Will eventually spills, watching the words fall out and hit Abigail like a punch. She freezes ever so slightly, and it is a sick awful thing, when he sees Abigail’s eyes widen.  
  
“Do you know?” He questions quietly, something ugly building in his head, wondering how the sweet girl in front of him caught up in this mess.  
  
But she is not sweet, not really, and there is enough proof to see the blood spilling from her hands, that he wonders if out of the three of them, if he was the one who was caught up in this all.  
  
“No? What are you talking about?” Abigail says, and it’s a decent lie, but Will sees the slight shake to her arms, and the way her eyes went distant, so caught up in the lie, that she forgot to control her body.  
  
Will considers confronting her, making her spill her secrets, and he wants her to, wants someone who can understand how it feels to know who Hannibal is, and not hate it. Not hate it to the point where you begin to want it too. But he can see the opposite happening, her running scared and afraid and telling Hannibal.  
  
Will envisions wide hands on his throat, a blade in his gut, all payment for secrets that weren’t his to keep.  
  
Instead, he keeps it simple and talks instead.  
  
“You don’t have to tell anything, but I know. About you.” He says, and watches as panicked tears fill her eyes, mouth opening to refuse everything, and he can’t take that, more lies told to his face. “Please don’t lie. I’m not stupid.” Abigail nods shakily, hands shoved into her jacket pockets.  
  
“How did you know?”  
  
“I could see the blood on your hands.” He says, shrugging awkwardly, not knowing how to tell her that her victims sometimes appear behind her, sad and hapless, visions of what could have become of Abigail had he been a second too late. Just another ordinary girl turning up dead, sitting in the belly of a monster’s gut.  
  
“Oh. So, can you always tell?” She asks casually, and he sees the question for what it is.  
  
“No, usually I can’t just tell if people have killed someone. Empathy doesn’t work quite like that. It was easier with you because I know you.” He says, and he feels a smile press against the corner of his mouth, begging to be let out. He loves moments like these, where he has the upper hand, and the other person has yet to know it. Will gets closer to her and smiles reassuringly towards her, before tugging at her shoulder, bending down to whisper into her ear.  
  
“I know who the Ripper is.” He murmurs, and the chuckle that leaves his throat is an ugly thing, but it fits like a glove, and its hard to stop the laughter from bubbling out of his mouth. “Where did you and Hannibal hide the body?” He asks, and feels her jolt, then pull away from him with a gasp.  
  
“Did he tell you?” She asks, eyes wide and shaking, and its cute how hard she’s trying to still pretend she is innocent in this all.  
  
“I know of the body you both hid. But he didn’t tell me about that. He isn’t aware I know. And I intend to keep it that way until I can find a way to use it against him. I’m not letting this secret tear me apart the way it is destroying you.” He lies, and smiles when Abigail nods shakily, eyes still fixated on his face.  
  
A good predator knows to not show its back to a bigger animal, and Abigail is slowly learning how to play this role.  
  
Her face looks horrified and all sorts of sad, and he wonders if he was wrong about this all, telling her things that she didn’t need to know.  
  
But then she smiles, a suppressed achy thing, and hooks her arm into his, pressing against him in solidarity.  
  
“Just another secret for us to keep then.” She says it like it will be the doom of them, and he wonders if perhaps she is right.  
  
Or perhaps it will be her doom. Will is beginning to realize that Hannibal has other plans for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk why my Abigail scenes are so long hjgahgjkd. I was going to write more but I figured a shorter update wouldn't hurt. Hannibal and Will talk too many big words, its easier to do normal teen talking with emotionally repressed dad then two old angry dudes talking poetry and psychology lmao. That is my excuse lol. Also what are your thoughts on Abigail? I know some people don't like her, but I don't mind her, and she is fairly easy to write. Just insert wide eyes and a bunch of manipulative lying lol. Anywayssss Will is being dumb hehe (as per usual). Hope this was good! And that y'all had a good week because I didnt lmao
> 
> Cheers xoxo


	8. Chapter 8

Mealtimes with Hannibal become a sort of daily ritual, be it Hannibal traveling to his house with breakfast, or Will going to Hannibal’s on a late night to share dinner and drinks. It is fun, in a way that his younger self would be daunted by. Having friends is a strange concept to him, and while Hannibal and he are not quite friends, it is still something that makes Will content.  
  
He doesn’t want to investigate why someone like Hannibal could makes someone like him happy. He already knows deep down, and he will do his best to ignore it, for as long as he can.  
  
He doesn’t want to find his happiness in someone else, it shouldn’t work like that and yet Will seems to defy that too.  
  
Hannibal is invested in his life, to a degree that sometimes bugs him. And yet he allows it because part of him enjoys it.  
  
“Sometimes I worry about you Will.” Hannibal says softly, and Will has to strain to hear it, over the bustling chaos that is Quantico’s cafeteria. He smiles slightly when he hears it, looking down into the bento box Hannibal has brought for him. It is a beautiful spread, full of delicious colors, and Will lets himself get lost in thought, staring at the food until it turns blurry.  
  
It is almost soothing now to hear that people are worried. Some sick part of him is satisfied how easily he scares people, and it serves as proof that he is repenting for sins he has yet to commit. It gives him motivation to work harder at this, his slow destruction, and it takes all his willpower then to not let the pleased rush that goes through him show. Because he may be damaged and wrong, but he has enough sense to at least pretend he is trying.  
  
He is trying, just not the way he should be.  
  
Will wonders if that is enough, that he hasn’t given up, even if it’s for the ugliest of reasons.  
  
“Well don’t.” He says, and then picks up a piece of a particularly spicy piece of sushi, and holds it out to Hannibal, grinning when he stares at it unamused. The man’s eyebrows flick upwards, and it is amusing, to see some visible form of emotion on Hannibal, no matter how real or fake it might be.  
  
“You have chopsticks for a reason Will.” He says, almost cross eyed as he watches the way Will’s hand shakes, still holding the food up for Hannibal to eat.  
  
Not eating does that, and he will not let Hannibal’s dark eyes guilt-trip him into thinking otherwise.  
  
“I also have fingers.” Will says just to annoy Hannibal, and it works, an irritated crease working its way onto the older man’s face. But he still leans forward and bites the sushi, the warmth of his lower lip brushing against Will’s fingers. Will pulls back, flushed, and pleased, and if he replays the feeling in his head over and over, well Hannibal is none the wiser.  
  
Hannibal smiles slightly, eyes going unfocused in pleasure as he chews and swallows.  
  
“You do. Though sometimes using utensils is needed, so that we need not get our hands dirty.”  
  
“Do you often think about your hands getting dirty Hannibal?”  
  
“Hardly. I have been told I am a rather fastidious.” Hannibal fixes him with a look, and Will feels as if he was in on a joke that only they knew. And perhaps it is, some sort of retribution for the less funny parts of this all. It makes him smirk slightly, and he looks at Hannibal’s hands, strong and unyielding.  
  
They can heal someone as easily as they might hurt. Covered in a patient’s blood, only to go home and meticulously tear into another, the gore glistening different under the pale moonlight. Hannibal is not meant to be a creature of the shadows, he is meant to be seen, and he wonders how the man takes it, when he can’t outright be pleased about his crimes.  
  
Hannibal doesn’t remove himself from any aspect of life, always gives the same distant polite to energy to each person. It is so hard to get him to show anything but that blank slate, and Will reluctantly thinks that at least the Ripper’s victims get something from Hannibal. They get to see his mask fall, his anger and blood-lust peak through, and Will is strangely jealous.  
  
Disdain and hatred are far easier to take than indifference. He couldn’t fathom being the brunt of Hannibal’s indifference, and perhaps Will is lucky in this regard. He has always been keen enough to keep the man’s attention, even if it means slowly letting himself crawl slowly into a doomed state. This will never end well, but perhaps that is for the better.  
  
Will is not a patient, not quite, but he also isn’t food. He is something else entirely, and he watches Hannibal’s eyes trace his face, with a deepening realization that he’ll never escape this.  
  
“I’m safe with you right?” Will asks suddenly, the words slipping out before he could think, and Hannibal looks at him, dark eyes unfathomable and narrowed.  
  
“Of course, Will. When I am by your side, you need not worry about any harm coming to you.” Hannibal says, and Will shakes his head, stopping the conversation before it starts. He hardly doubts that Hannibal is telling the truth, but he also understands the older man’s brain works differently. Betrayal and pain are something different to Hannibal, and Will is because of it. He is too tired for banter, and he hopes the way he smiles at the man portrays that, instead of something ruder.  
  
He is a rude man playing cat and mouse with a stronger creature, and he wonders how many times he can toe the line before Hannibal snaps.  
  
“Then you don’t need to worry about me.” Will says eventually, and Hannibal smiles slightly, like he wants to disagree, but he doesn’t know how it will benefit him.  
  
“That seems impossible, given your current state, but I will do my best to not voice my concerns.” Hannibal lies, and Will smiles again, lying in turn, acting as if he believes the man.  
  
“I’m fine Hannibal.”  
  
He wonders how many times he’ll have to say it before he starts to believe it too.  
  
Hannibal watches him, mouth working with unspoken words, and he reaches across to hold Will’s hand, a gentle thing that hurts more than it should. He often forgets how touch starved he is, and it makes him gasp, from the heat from Hannibal’s hand, and the lack of callouses making it even softer. He feels unneeded tears well up in his eyes, and he looks down, ashamed and annoyed at how his body betrays him.  
  
He squeezes back, and focuses on the soothing warmth of Hannibal’s hand, how it could easily hurt him, but it chooses to soothe. He hardly deserves to be treated nicely, but he is beginning to realize that his body and mind are on two different paths.  
  
“See. Not okay.” Hannibal voices softly, and Will shakes his head angrily. He doesn’t know how to explain that he has felt like this for so long, that he hardly ever recognizes that its not okay. Will wasn’t meant to be okay, or normal, or anything that might be perceived as happy.  
  
This life is a punishment in and of itself, for something Will has yet to discover.  
  
“Don’t. Please not today.” He pleads, and the man nods, pulling away without another word. Will smiles gratefully and looks down at the food, which now looks dull and unappetizing, something sickly settling in his stomach.  
  
He is okay. But he’s not.  
  
They sit there in not so quiet silence, and Will wonders how this will come back to bite him, be it regret or another attempt at manipulation.  
  
But Hannibal is looking at him with sad worried eyes, and for once it might almost be real. His hands shake and he looks away, pulse beating against his throat, the only sign that time might be passing.  
  
And this all scares him. How easy this has become, to fall into this and forget reality.  
  
-  
  
It is not something he did intentionally.  
  
No matter how much he is set on killing himself, destroying the filthy vessel to his damaged mind, he never intended for this to be another hazard on the list.  
  
Will was never big on pills, hating their bitter chalky texture, and how easy they are to get addicted to. As a kid, he could never take them down, and it would be stuck on his tongue, slowly dissolving into his saliva. It was a disgusting thing, and he learned how to eventually get past that barrier that refuses to swallow down medicine, but the taste remains. Pills will never be easy to swallow, but he can do it, he’s trying.  
  
Everything feels so hard to swallow lately, it hardly makes a difference now.  
  
So, when he starts this, he treads as carefully as he can, mindfully of the stories he has read, people winding up dead from a dose too many. He won’t be one of them, wide eyed and helpless as their body convulses and dies. No, Will is better than that, and it is an easier thought now, this pedestal he puts himself on.  
  
It is just another aspect of Hannibal’s personality that he begins to reflect, some sort of confidence radiating through his body, and it doesn’t fit quite right. It feels wrong and ugly, and applied to the worst things. He should be proud of the men and women he catches, not being able to handle a pill addiction or smiling in the mirror when he drops down another size.  
  
Self-destruction is not something he should be proud of, but it’s all he knows.  
  
He started by taking the dosage on the bottle, half amused by the idea of taking anti-depressants and another half annoyed at Hannibal taking control of another aspect of his life. He knows it is a given when you’re the only person to pique a crazy person’s interest, an obsession of sorts, but he had figured Hannibal would give him some space to breathe his own air. Let him figure out on his own that he needs help or let him drown in his own planned demise. Unfortunately, that is untrue.  
  
Will doesn’t know why he thought Hannibal would do anything different, the man is crazy to a fault, but at least he is easy to read.  
  
Eventually though, it turns into a habit, downing a pill or two in the morning, and carrying the bottle around with him, taking another one whenever he feels overwhelmed. It is not healthy, but as he stares at the near empty bottle, he forgets why he should care. All he can think of is getting more, so that perhaps one day he’ll wake up and be better.  
  
Because that is what this all is. Chasing happiness out of a bottle, hoping that he might be redeemed a bit by each pill he takes. It doesn’t work like that, and yet here he is.  
  
That is what alcohol was, when he first started replacing dinner with a few fingers of whiskey, all in hopes that his mind would quiet down enough for him to just exist. For a while it worked, shutting his mind down long enough to catch some sleep, and then another sip or two in the morning to hide away from any consequences. But sobriety was always an ugly fall down to reality. It’s a painful thing, being awake and aware of things he shouldn’t know, and he had thought alcohol would help. All it gave him was pounding headaches, and a head start to liver cancer.  
  
He wonders when he’ll give up on these delusions, waiting for something to save him.  
  
He recalls his father drunk half past two, popping pills and tossing back enough liquor to ignore the pains of life. They didn’t have it easy, and all Will really remembers from growing up was the constant pains of hunger and too much anger. His dad bitterly angry at bills and work, and Will with a child-like fury at his dad for making his life a shitty one. Because it was shitty, being robbed of a childhood, and thrown into a strange purgatory that wasn’t quite adulthood. Will hated it, but he knew deep down his dad was trying. He tried, and Will in turn did his best to try too, but it never seemed to be enough.  
  
Poverty is like that, no matter how close you are to success, it has a way of ruining that too.  
  
It takes and takes, and eventually no matter how good you are, it takes that and destroys you, until you’re a bitter husk of what you should have been.  
  
He remembers watching with wide knowing eyes from beyond the kitchen corner, watching as his father slowly faded away. His hair turning white, and gums black from too much tobacco. The way he turned from a kind man with a lot of love to give, to someone who was so strung up about life that he hardly had any energy to even consider another person. It was the easiest part of Will’s childhood in retrospect, but for anyone else it would be traumatizing, seeing a good man go grey.  
  
It had nearly killed his father at one point, blue in the face and a bottle hanging from his fingers, barely saved by Will who was tempted to let the man die. He loves (loved) his father, but he sometimes wishes he wouldn’t. Loving someone who is giving their life away so easily is hard to love, and it was hard to love his father when he was never there.  
  
Maybe that is why Will is so unloved, because he refuses to see his life as anything else besides a means to an end. He won’t grow old, and he makes it clear to people, and pushes them away.  
  
He distantly wonders if this could kill him, downing a pill too many, and he packs that thought away for later, for a day where he feels less whole.  
  
For now, he is filling another prescription for it, remarkably easy to do when Hannibal is your doctor. He doesn’t let himself think of the ramifications of this, and just shakily watches Hannibal fill the paper out, with swift precise movements of his hand. The man made it easier to feel less guilt about this situation, and so Will does his best to not feel it at all, even when he knows he should. Hannibal only gave him a long searching look, before handing him the paper, fingers brushing against his.  
  
It is meant as a comforting thing, so Will grimaces, trying to spread his lips into a smile. When that fails, he says thank you, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds.  
  
Be safe is all Hannibal said, and Will said he would be. It is easier to lie, when you’re used to it, and now they slip smoothly from his tongue without a trace of guilt. Distantly he wonders if that is his empathy reflecting Hannibal’s manipulative sides, or if he is losing his morals, the ones he always feared would disappear. He figures its neither, because Will has always been a decent liar, and like it or not, Will was never destined for greatness.  
  
He has always been a monster; it is just easier to see now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays everyone! If you don't celebrate, I hope you guys have a good rest of the year regardless. This chapter feels a little redundant so I'm sorry for that, though I promise it picks up next chapter. Don't get addicted to pills it sucks lmao. Also this is over two thousand words so I'm impressed, I have no idea how people write such large stories.
> 
> As always stay safe! And take care of yourself, even if it means you don't become f'd up like Will ahha


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for mentions of self-harm and depression.

His father always told him that if he weren’t careful his lies would catch up to him. Will hadn’t believed it at the time, in that stupid silly way, where adolescents think their parents are too old to understand. His father was right though, behind the dead eyes and shaky hands, he knew Will would eventually fall.  
  
It hurts, to know that even his father dreamt of his failure.  
  
He messes up, on a day that begins too early for him to care or notice his sleeves are too short to cover his transgressions. That if he lifts his arm just so, his cuffs slide up his wrists, showing red streaks and brown-blue circles of pain. Will starts the day off unhappier than usual, an aching headache pounding fiercely at his temples, and the stale taste of smoke on the back of his tongue. The mess of skin and the shaky desperateness of his body disgusts him, and he only gets up because his dogs need to eat. Because his job demands that he is up and ready to save lives, even if it means disregarding his own. He doesn’t eat anything, and he downs a lukewarm coffee instead, hoping to get shaky before he sees Jack.  
  
The shakiness would guilt-trip him, giving Will a wide berth and a slow sympathetic pat on the back. It doesn’t necessarily make it better, but something about the worry he invokes in everyone is enough to keep him going. Something about their guilt, about tearing apart a man who was already broken makes Will laugh, crazed and too painful to be happy.  
  
Something about this torture he puts his body through thrills him, and he has given up on denying its perverse pleasure. He crawls into his car, bones aching and heavy, avoiding eye contact with himself. He doesn’t recognize himself today, his face a mixture of those he failed to save and those he failed to catch. Ghosts of his past haunt him, and Will feels his psyche cracking. It is one of those days, where he can’t stand to see himself, as if he doesn’t look, he doesn’t exist.  
  
Even the beating of his own heart is too much, the steady pumping against his chest making his anxiety fly through the roof. And it hurts, this day, any day really, and that is where the problem lies.  
  
When he arrives, Jack walks out, eyes fixated on him before he has a chance to breathe, and a warm steady hand guides him to his newest puzzle. He shakes Jack’s hand off, and lets his brain take over, eyes tracing the room with a sickening glee building in his stomach.  
  
It’s a crime scene, a body torn into artful pieces and spread around like displays around the room, and he forgets for just a moment that people are always watching him. He tastes the man’s fear, long after he had died, and it tastes bitter, too tainted by the killer’s strange desires. It was a kill made from love, obsession to a higher degree, and all Will can feel is the desperate sorrow of a man who can’t show this love.  
  
Someone so scorned and bitter over a love never to be, that he kills for it.  
  
A man so desperate to destroy this terrible feeling that he kills the object of his affections, all the while mourning his death before it had even occurred. Will wonders what it must be like, to feel so deeply and completely, and be so gone for another, that you lose all your senses.  
  
It sounds terribly familiar, and it makes Will ache, for things he should not have. Things he knows he could have, sees it in the fond smiles and the familiar glint of interest in maroon shaded eyes. He wonders if Hannibal knows, knows how Will pines for him, despite knowing the darkness that crawls around beneath that mask he wears.  
  
Will releases those thoughts for a moment, as impressions begin to flicker through his brain, ideas of what happened when the victim was still breathing.  
  
A low arousal begins to stir in his gut, and as new habits tend to do, he resists the urge to let it get further and muffles the slight laugh that escapes his lips. It’s a panicked thing, and he notices a lab tech shoot him a wary glare, which makes him laugh even more. The man walks away, muttering obscenities, and Will watches him go, a twisted smile lingering on his lips. Eventually though he must reign it in, because while he would love to freely express himself, it is not the time or place. He feels dark, wondering eyes on the back of his head, and he ignore the jolt of guilt that rushes through his body.  
  
He has been avoiding Jack, because while they have made amends for his slip up a while back, he still feels like he is on a thin line. He knows he is, because everyone watches him now, Alana stares at him with sad worried eyes, Price and Zeller make snide backhanded comments behind his back, and Jack watches him with keen unflinching stares, seeing right through him.  
  
Will was out of line, and the two of them are trying their best to ignore how crazed Will is becoming. He wonders if this will be how their friendship ends, Will going a step too far and Jack being forced to finally see him for who he is.  
  
If he could wish for anything, it would be an easy removal from this life, so that he won’t betray the people that care for him. Betrayal is a sickly thing, and Will can see it on the horizon, bloody and violent, and all sorts of wrong.  
  
The thought makes him shudder, and he tries to refocus on the severed arm beneath him, eyes tracing it for any sort of evidence. It is not his job, but he wishes they could solve this like they should, instead of relying on Will’s dying sanity and fractured mind. It hurts him every time he looks beyond the veil, and he finds himself lost to a degree that should scare him. He starts to become the people he is hunting, and one day, he will try to see, and he won’t come back.  
  
Will hardly knows who he is, but he knows he can’t be that. Not yet.  
  
He tears his eyes away from the gore and lets out a shuddery breath. Jack sends him a cursory, searching look, and asks if he is alright.  
  
Of course, not. When has he ever been?  
  
But he could hardly say that nothing would come from it besides conversations he refuses to have. Instead, he shrugs and squats down to inspect the body parts close to him, eyes flickering as he imagines the crime.  
  
He feels himself become the other, a shaky glide into one, and immediately his chest aches. The sorrow and deranged desire coming from his chest, from the killer’s chest, is enough to make him double over. Bile rises in his throat, and he swallows it down, eyes peeling open to look at the man sitting next to him, with a fond smile playing on his soft features, and a coffee cup held out, begging Will to take it.  
  
No. Not Will, but not quite him either.  
  
He sees his hands reach out to the blond man sitting beside him, and the sting of betrayal hurts, when he watches the victim’s eyes widen as the knife plunges into his chest. It is a sudden thing, pulled out from the crying man, as the blond mentions his girlfriend, a fleeting thing but the damage is done. He acts out, a flooding surge of rage filling his body as he lunges forward, teeth gritted as if to prevent the salty tears flowing into his mouth. He stabs repeatedly, and watches with delirious laughter as his tears mix with the man’s blood. His death doesn’t make him feel better, not at all.  
  
Will knows that in the real world, the one where he stands there shuddering and shaking, that there are tears falling down his cheeks. The man’s sorrow becomes so strong that Will feels it as his own, chest heaving as the air around him becomes sparse.  
  
Death didn’t help him.  
  
It made it all so much worse, and now there is a gaping hole in his chest, where the other man’s presence should lay. It shouldn’t have gone like this; it was supposed to make him fall out of love. He tastes the regret before it becomes apparent, and the scent of vomit clues him into what happens next.  
  
He keels over, bile caught his throat, and he has to remind himself he didn’t do this. He isn’t in love with the dead severed body beneath him, this is not him.  
  
It is a difficult thing to do, and Will wonders how much longer he can do this, looking past it all, before he loses himself completely.  
  
Will feels himself being dragged back into reality, and he blinks away tears as he gasps for air. Price and Zeller are staring at him, with various degrees of concern and fear, and he wonders what he did now. He feels fractured, like pieces of him are hanging on to thin wires, one wrong move away from falling apart. It is a manic feeling, that shudders through his bones, and makes his eyes too wide, and a smile as fake as can be.  
  
He feels unhinged, and he wishes for a place to moor, somewhere to lay safe.  
  
Will reaches down with shaking fingers and goes to touch a dismembered arm beneath him, some sort of urge pressing at his brain until he complies. He goes to grab it, fingers wrapping around the limb, when Beverly gasps, a quiet muffled thing, but noticeable all the same.  
  
He shoots up and sends her an apologetic look, only to find her looking at him with pitying eyes and a shaky mouth.  
  
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to contaminate the arm.” He doesn’t really care, but he tries his best to, knowing it keeps him on the line. Beverly shakes a hand at that, and walks over to him, eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
Her hand reaches out to his arm, and Will is too slow to realize what she is doing, until his sleeve is pulled upwards, revealing the ugly mess that is his skin. He grimaces and tries to shake her hands off him, but her grip is steady yet gentle, and her eyes keep trying to meet his.  
  
“I won’t treat you like you are stupid-“  
  
“I’m glad you don’t think I’m a child.” Will snarks, a barrier for the fear settling in his throat. Beverley shoots him a look and then she sighs, something sad crossing her expression.  
  
“I had a friend. In college, she was like you.” Beverly says and Will stops, sympathy making him shut up for a moment. Her pain is keen enough to feel, and Will already feels unsteady, this makes it worse. “She died. And I don’t think you would do that, but this isn’t good for you.”  
  
“I’m not a girl Bev.” He says and then grimaces when she rolls her eyes, ignoring his comment.  
  
“Didn’t say you were. I just didn’t want to blame you for this. I know how rough it can be. It can happen to anyone.”  
  
“I’m not depressed.” A lie of course but Will doesn’t really want to think about it.  
  
“I’m not trying to accuse of anything. But you’ve always been a bit off, this could explain some of your behavior.”  
  
That hurt, and suddenly Will doesn’t like people worrying over him. It is not the usual thrill he gets, and it makes him feel guilty for things he shouldn’t care about.  
  
“Then don’t accuse me of anything. Drop it.” Will snaps, and he can feel eyes on the back of his head, heavy footsteps approaching him. Beverly makes a face to the person behind him, and he hears Jack sigh, short and weary.  
  
“I knew something was wrong, but not this.” Jack says and his expression doesn’t make Will feel any better about the situation.  
  
“I am fine Jack. I can take care of myself.”  
  
“Not when you are hurting yourself. Not this bad.” His voice quiets to a near whisper, and it reminds Will that they are still on a crime scene, with curious eyes all around them. It makes his skin crawl with disgust, and he tugs his arm away and pulls his sleeve down, ignoring how his hands start to shake.  
  
He didn’t want people to find out. Not like this.  
  
He stays quiet and does his best to make some form of eye contact, as if trying to show the world how okay he really is. Will knows the moment he fails at this when Jack rolls his eyes and looks to Beverly who is still watching him with those sad pitiful eyes. It angers him, and his hands itch to do something, take back the situation so that he comes out of it victorious.  
  
“Call Doctor Lecter.” Jack snaps, and then strong hands are on his shoulders, guiding him away as if he were a child. Will turns around eyes blazing with frustration, and he plants his feet firmly.  
  
“Don’t do this Jack.” He pleads, and when Jack only stares at him, with those softening eyes, he continues desperate. “He can’t know. Not him.” He says, biting his tongue when Jack raises an eyebrow looking skeptical.  
  
Jack doesn’t know how Hannibal could use this, has been using Will’s unhappiness to slowly manipulate him closer to him. Will doesn’t really care, but he likes to go on his own volition, not because of his friend’s easy deceit.  
  
“Why can’t your therapist know about how stupid you are being?” Jack eventually questions, and it is Will’s turn to roll his eyes.  
  
“He is not my therapist Jack. You know this.”  
  
“Deflecting. Besides, while he isn’t officially your therapist, he is still responsible for the general safety of his patients and those around him.”  
  
Will grimaces, and his hand falls to his wrist, fingers scraping against new scabs and old scars. It hurts, in that way where everything else calms down, and he feel the steady relief it gives him, how his mind clears enough to do his job, and get Hannibal out of this. He doesn’t want the man to know, to have another piece of leverage on him.  
  
The worst part is once Hannibal is near him, Will forgets why he should be wary of the man. He supposes love, no matter how real it is, will do that to you.  
  
“The man loved the victim. He is around the same height as the victim, notoriously know for being gay. He feels scorned by his not-lover, and how they can’t be together because the man won’t admit to himself that he likes men. This was supposed to free them both. The man from his lies and denial, and the suspect from this love, that twists and deepens every day. Love isn’t meant for them, and so he ended it before it could start. But he regrets it now, and his behavior will be erratic and noticeable. Friends and loved ones will eventually get hurt, and we will find our trail.” Will says, and the words are hardly coherent, but they mean something. Because even now, with how hurt he is, he can still do his job. He hasn’t fallen so low as to start siding with the suspects and he still has his morals.  
  
Jack doesn’t realize how okay he is, how he presents himself as okay. Will could stop the self-inflicted pain, but then he would only become worse. Fall quicker to this evil inside him, to the ghosts that follow him and mock his weaknesses.  
  
Will isn’t a good person, but this, the very thing Jack will try to stop, is the only thing keeping him from being a bad person.  
  
“Are you sure?” Jack questions, his face unsure as if Will has ever been wrong about this. Just because he now knows how sick Will is doesn’t mean he is wrong. He tells Jack that, and it only makes Jack’s face tighten even more.  
  
“Doctor Lecter is on his way. Go sit down.” He orders tone coarse, and as he steps away, he grimaces, as if he were trying to smile apologetically, but isn’t quite sure how to be sincere about it. Beverly waves at him, a friendly gesture, something apologetic in the movement, but Will can’t be bothered to care. Not now, when everything is going wrong.  
  
Will stares after him, and for a moment he lets himself fume about this, because he knows what follows will be awful.  
  
And well.  
  
Will should have done better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that happened lol. Sorry for the slow update, college just started back up and I've been busy. Hopefully this was good???
> 
> As always have a great day :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for mentions of self-harm, suicide, blood, and vomit.  
> Please don't read if any of this will bother you :)

All things fall apart.  
  
It is an inevitable part of life, and by now, at his age, he should know this and accept it. He should know that this front he puts up to the world now, snarky but quiet, angry but oh so afraid, is just that. A front. That despite how shaky and pitiful he presents himself; he is even worse deep down. Sometimes Will forgets that, and it shows now, as he walks with quick steps, back aching from the shakes that rattle his frame.  
  
As easily as he gets angry, burning sears through his body, it is just as easy to disappear. His sanity, his normality is a fickle thing, bound to fall apart. And it does, with an ugly ease, that makes Will walk even quicker, eyes flickering about to avoid his reflections, and the eyes of people who think they know too much. They don’t but it doesn’t stop them from staring.  
  
Eventually when the burning anger gives way to fear, when he finds himself walking without thought, he begins to panic. Panic is something Will has never been able to deal with. It is too unseemly, too uncontrollable for Will’s taste, and when it begins to build in him, fear bubbles up in his stomach. He can’t stop it now, even at a crime scene where everyone expects him to save the day. Will finds himself in a bathroom, heavily breathing in and out as his vision goes blurry. Nausea bubbles in his stomach, sickening and strong, and he manages to make it to the toilet in time, the morning’s coffee coming up in violent waves.  
  
His mouth tastes awful, and he stumbles to the sink, drinking the stale water from pipes too old to properly work, and he drinks and swishes it around, hoping it will all dissipate. It doesn’t completely, the taste of sick still lingering on his tongue, and it is enough to make his stomach buckle again, so he disposes the thought, and focuses on breathing.  
  
Some part of him knew this would happen, this spiral into unease, into this unbearable pressure on his chest. The same part that knew that people would find out, and they would worry about him. It is an inevitable thing, no matter how cliché the media portrays it. The betrayal is a harsher thing with this, the narrowed fear eyes, and the shaky hands, reaching out to Will as if he were broken.  
  
As if he doesn’t understand the extent to which this is all wrong. He is wrong, has always been, and he knows that this, no matter how much people will want to help is wrong too. Wrongness is something that people can’t explain though, divided into morals that no one can place. But this he knows is wrong, and to some people even a sin.  
  
Will wonders how one of the worst things he can do to himself is one of his less damning sins.  
  
Will knows, deep down in that saner young part of him, that this will never work long. He knows that the cuts and the burns, and the rumbling stomach will only hold his urges down for a moment longer. One can’t stop their nature, and this sickly evil though that lingers in the back of his brain reminds him that he was never supposed to be good. Will was born for this, to see ghosts in the frameworks of his mind, to feel unhinged at the thought of something more violent.  
  
He hardly wants it, doesn’t want to see blood covering his hands, but yet here he is, punishing himself further for getting caught.  
  
He digs his nails into the soft skin of his biceps, eyes jammed shut, as he takes another breath in, something fiery and hurt being let out. He would scream if it were allowed, if the thin door between the hallway and the bathroom was any thicker. If his cry for help would be ignored, passed over as something that is so unexplainably Will that people don’t mind it.  
  
Will doesn’t want to make anyone more concerned than they already are.  
  
Of all his fantasies of people finding out, seeing the wreckage on his skin and the damage to his brain, it had never gone like this. He had envisioned himself gleeful and sarcastic, holding his death upon them all as payment, something to ease the pain and worry they caused him in return. Will was supposed to be unbothered by it all, unworried about how he is slowly dying, but Will’s wishes rarely come true.  
  
Instead, he finds himself falling apart in someone’s bathroom, toothpaste smeared on the counter in which his hands hold. If it were any evidence for the crime he is supposed to be solving, it is long gone, smudged and all over Will’s body, as he tears at his skin and hair. The scent of mint fills the air, and it is not a soothing thing, despite the fact that it should be. It just makes the weird scent of sweat and fear more apparent, and he hates this all.  
  
It is nothing like his late nights of self-deprecation, and the pain that shoots through his body does nothing to ease the panic taking over him. It probably makes it worse, adrenaline kicking his nerves to a point where he shakes unbearably, head filled with nothing but ugly white noise. Distantly he can find the thoughts that make him feel like this, but they are too far away to fight, and Will is too weak to stop the constant onslaught of thinly veiled terror that shoots through him.  
  
His nails catch on a particularly raw part of his forearm, and Will bites back a scream, teeth grinding against each other.  
  
He wishes he could stop, but he can’t, and he feels his skin begin to bleed, rough lines of anxiety trickling down under his sleeves. The irony metallic scent fills his nostrils, and it is a testament to how far he is gone, that he can smell it through the layers covering his skin. Will isn’t accustomed to this part of his deficiencies, these panic attacks that shouldn’t happen, and it will irritate him, later on when he can properly think.  
  
For now though, he hunkers down, knees knocking against the cool tile, as he stops breathing, holding his breath in hopes that this will all help. He wonders what will happen if he dies right here, body the only sign he was ever here. If people would mourn, or if they would whisper to each other in hallways, that they knew this would happen. Poor Will Graham, crazy and ugly, finally got what was inevitable. The way everyone says his name, half in fear and half in pity, the weight of all those ugly feelings coloring his name until it is unrecognizable.  
  
He hopes that when he does go, no one will talk about it, leave his name as a part of unspeakable history. Maybe then he can finally rest easy.  
  
His dreams of death are a romantic thing, something that don’t match the real world. It is something that lingers in the back of his mind, unimportant until he is alone, gentle thoughts of jumping into traffic, dying in his sleep. He has other visions of death, more vicious and uglier, where strong hands wrap around his throat, where a rope cracks his neck and burns his lungs. Wishing for death is something he has always done, and sometimes he forgets why he shouldn’t. Something he forgot was worrying, something he forgot people would care about.  
  
Why do they care?  
  
He doesn’t want them to. But want hardly necessities reality, and Will is all too familiar with not getting what he wants, or what he thinks he deserves.  
  
He bites his lip, blood flooding his senses, to the point where the knock on the door, hardly startles him.  
  
Will looks up, eyes blurry with unshed tears, and he makes some sort of noise, in between a plea and a curse, and it is good enough for whoever knock.  
  
The door creaks open and closes quietly, heeled shoes clicking against the bathroom tiles in a steady assured beat. Will stares at the familiar shoes and legs, breathing in and out, focusing on nothing but the noises breaking through to him. He finds it slightly easier to breathe when warm hands press gently into his shoulders, anchoring him back to Earth with ease.  
  
“Will?” The voice, familiar and slow asks him, and well he eventually would have had to look up. So, he does it, and finds his eyes catching on worried set to Hannibal’s mouth. Underneath it though, he sees some sort of glee in the man, and he wonders if he were a better person, maybe the glee wouldn’t have been visible. For once he is lucky to see through people’s lies, and the thinly veiled plans running through Hannibal’s head makes his eyes roll to the back of his head.  
  
“I’m-” He stops to cough, lungs sore and aching for fresh air. “I’m okay.” A lie, as per usual, but instead of nodding and accepting it like usual, Hannibal frown’s, knees falling down to kneel next to him, crisp lines of his suit ruined.  
  
“We both know that is a lie Will.” Will looks at him a moment longer, lips trembling with tears unshed, and god he hates this part. He feels the sorrow, the coming down from his panic attack, and he bites his lip for a moment, to quell the onslaught of tears.  
  
“Often times we are often cruel to the vessels that contain our minds. It is no secret that society tends to deem any sort of self-harm as pointless and horrific, as most people can’t understand what could make someone lowers themselves to such debauchery.” Hannibal says slowly, and Will watches him, hoping that he will shut up. “Are you hurting yourself Will?” He asks, soft and quiet, and by instinct Will shakes his head furiously.  
  
Hannibal looks unimpressed, and with firm hands he tugs Will’s arm towards him, lithe fingers exposing the ugly canvas of his arm. For a moment he looks frighten and disgusted, and Will wants to find amusement in his ability to scare the unfazeable Doctor Lecter. Instead fear and something heavy at the back of his throat get let out instead, in a mangled sob.  
  
The older man’s eyes snap upward, narrowing and then widening at the fat tears that begin to fall down Will’s cheeks. Will watches him decide whether to do anything, while he chokes back any noise that wants to escape his throat.  
  
Eventually Hannibal lets his affections decide for him, and warm arms around him, pulling him into the firm space of his chest. Will lets himself be tugged, and he burrows his nose into the man’s collarbone, breathing in his scent.  
  
“Miss Katz told me you looked uneasy. Dragging an imaginary knife across your throat. Tell me Will, is this your destiny. To lay on the line of death until you no longer have a say in it?” Hannibal sounds as calm as ever, but Will hears the fear coloring the words. He wonders if it is genuine, or out of some sort of fear that he will lose his pet project. He considers voicing that, but he figures that he can’t die at the moment, no matter how much he wants to.  
  
“Death doesn’t fear me Doctor Lecter. I hardly think being a bit reckless is something as crazy giving myself up to the hands of death.”  
  
“You’re not a foolish man Will, please don’t act like it.” Hannibal snaps, and it is so similar to his conversation with Beverly that he sits up, eyes furious and narrowed, despite the tears still falling from them.  
  
“If I’m not foolish then don’t treat me like it.” Hannibal’s fingers dig slightly into his back, and Will freezes, looking at the frustration that flashes through the man’s eyes.  
  
“Then you can admit that this is foolish. Suicide is a coward’s way out.”  
  
“Suicide? What part of what I’m doing says that I’m going to kill myself?” Technically it’s true, his self-inflicted pain isn’t really a death wish. They are two different things that interact sometimes, when the demons in his head mix with his awful romanization of death.  
  
They are both silent for a moment, quiet only broken by Will’s short breaths and Hannibal shifting on the floor, knees creaking with age and discomfort from the cold floor.  
  
“I hardly presume to know what goes on in your mind, for I doubt even you know the full extent of it all. With that being said, I know you are unwell Will.” The words are not particularly kind, but Hannibal’s voice is, and it makes Will shake, with anger and affection, done over by this want to be seen.  
  
“Why do you care so much?” He finally asks, slipping off his tongue far too quick to even feel regret over it. Hannibal freezes for a moment, an incredulous look passing over his face.  
  
“As a psychiatrist I am obligated to care. As your friend I want to.” He says simply, but Will feels like it is anything but. Friendship doesn’t cover what they are, what they could be, pre-destined murder and potential betrayal aside. He sees something, lingering in the cracks of this fragmented relationship, but he doesn’t know what it is.  
  
Will looks away for a moment, maroon eyes following the movement with keenly, unaware of the uneasiness that now wracks Will’s body.  
  
He considers pressing Hannibal for more. Considers letting more lies slip from his tongue. In the end he decides to tell a truth of sorts, throat heavy with relief and worry all at once.  
  
“It helps. The pain eases my brain enough to be able to think normally.” He doesn’t mention the burns on his thighs because he knows that Hannibal has been aware of that habit for a while now, holding onto it like a dirty politician holds onto blackmail.  
  
“You are not normal Will. You are beyond that, and to punish yourself for thinking differently is a cruelty I cannot allow.” Hannibal murmurs, eyes fixated on his, and for a brief moment Will wants to kiss him, to shut up his gorgeous annoying voice, and kiss him senselessly. It is an idle thought that lingers in his brain, and he saves it for later, when he can take it apart and learn from it.  
  
“It’s not what worries me. Or rather not the full extent of that, but the side effects that come from it.”  
  
The older man nods, palms rubbing reassuringly on the small of his back, and Will takes a moment to shift, intimately aware of how close they are together.  
  
“So, it’s your thoughts that make you do this?” He sounds more incredulous than he should be and Will scoffs, a bitter thing from the back of his throat, resigned and angry and all too done.  
  
“Thinking of murder isn’t something I would like in my brain Hannibal.”  
  
“That is part of your job, thinking of death is something I would be more surprised at you not doing.”  
  
Will looks down, hands playing with the frayed strings on the bottom of his jeans, mouth working in fear. Hannibal’s hands slide around to capture his, and he watches them envelope his own, as Hannibal keeps them warm. It’s a reassuring gesture, and Will lets himself get lost in it for a moment, before he speaks, something shameful burning his cheeks.  
  
“I can think of death by other people’s hands. Not death by my own.” Hannibal freezes, and he can feel the careful consideration that cracks the older man’s mind, the new revelation that he must deal with. “This isn’t Garret Jacob Hobbs or envisioning out crime scenes within my mind. It is a sick portrayal of my darker wishes, where I see nothing but blood on my hands and bodies beneath me.” His chest is heaving by the time he gets the words out, and some lingering panic from earlier rises again, leaving his lungs empty.  
  
Hannibal stays silent, eyes keen and sharp in the flickering bathroom light, and Will becomes all too acquainted with the cold floor, as it bleeds through his jeans. Hannibal’s hands go back to caressing his body, absentminded touches while he watches Will with hungry eyes.  
  
“You haven’t acted on these thoughts, have you?”  
  
Will shakes his head and feels hurt by the minute disappointment that presses against Hannibal’s mouth. He shouldn’t want to hurt people, but in that moment, with Hannibal’s hunger and bloodlust filling his senses, it is hard to think of why it would be wrong.  
  
Hannibal is dangerous, and no good for him, but he can’t leave.  
  
“Then you are fine Will. There is no need for all this pain.”  
  
Will shakes his head again.  
  
“I’m not a good person Hannibal, this is how I pay for it.”  
  
“If you aren’t a good person than I must be awful.” Hannibal says and Will has to hold back a laugh at that one. “Besides good people are boring; you must know this.”  
  
Will looks at him for a moment, considering and calm, something that relieves him despite the situation he is in, and he smiles slightly, feeling the edges of his lips shakes.  
  
“Doesn’t stop me from wanting to be one.” He pauses, mouth falling into a grimace, hands now pressing into the steady warmth of Hannibal’s sides. “Won’t stop me from hurting myself.”  
  
It is an ugly admission, one that hurts him as much as it seems to hurt Hannibal. He sees the sad concerned furrow of Hannibal’s brow, and he can feel his own features mirroring it unintentionally, until they share the same sadness.  
  
“Let me take care of this for you.” The man says quietly, his own hands shaking against Will’s body, and for a moment he wonders if he transferred his pain to Hannibal, if he can feel how keenly Will hurts, how much he wants to do anything but.  
  
“I don’t know how you can.” Will says back, and Hannibal’s eyes flash with something defiant and worried, and so affectionate that he finds himself backtracking, if only to remove the expression from the man’s face. It is unnerving to see such raw emotion on Hannibal’s face, and for the first time since this started, it feels genuine. “But…okay.” He manages some sort of smile, failing when Hannibal looks at him helplessly, eyes shaking with tears not meant for Will.  
  
Will isn’t worth any tears.  
  
But some part of Hannibal’s easy affection, his care, the way his hands are always so gentle, something about it being there despite the abundance of violence surrounding Hannibal. Something about it makes Will feels like he can have it, that he can leave this all behind and becomes something better, uglier really, but better in their eyes. Happier and free, and willing to love someone who shouldn’t be able to love.  
  
“You do, don’t you?” He says, and he forgets for a moment that they don’t share a brain, that Hannibal can’t read his mind. Despite that Hannibal seems to understand it, eyes widening and hands tightening on his thighs.  
  
Something in the fervent lines of Hannibal’s mouth tells him before he says it. What a strange concept, this mutual obsession, born from blood and bruises, tired watching eyes, waiting for an equal to appear.  
  
An obsession born from loneliness from looking across the room and finding the only other person that could ever understand you. And Hannibal doesn’t know it yet, not to the extent that he will, but Will understands him far more than he could ever understand himself.  
  
“You must know by now.” Will raises an eyebrow, watches the endearing pulse of nervous tension in the man’s throat. “My dearest William, I love you. In ways I don’t believe you are equipped to comprehend.” Thinly veiled insult aside, Will feels something delicate grow in his heart, a weird sort of hope he isn’t accustomed to.  
  
He smiles in answer, throat failing him, heart beating oddly slow for the way he feels.  
  
Hannibal kisses him then, soft, and sweet, with a lingering bite of possessiveness underneath it all. It would irritate him how gentle he is being treated, except for how right it feels. Being pressed against the man’s chest, the slow steady warmth of their lips against each other.  
  
Hannibal pulls him into his lap, making Will groan against his mouth, a pleased thing burning away at his stomach. He threads his hands into the man’s hair, marveling at the soft texture of it, and how Hannibal makes a small noise when he tugs it. Hannibal’s hands lay heavy on his hips, fingers digging into the fragile skin of his waist.  
  
A loud knock rattles the thin frame of the door they are pressed against, and Will jumps away, chest hammering with guilt. He knows he isn’t doing anything wrong but making out on a crime seems a bit much, no matter how heated he might get on them anyways. He stands up on shaky legs, and extends a handout to Hannibal, who grips it tightly, and pulls himself up, remarkably composed and calm.  
  
Will runs a hand through his hair, and fixes his glasses, before offering Hannibal a smile, one that is returned with a small hum and a pleased flash to the man’s eyes.  
  
Jack swings the door open and closes his mouth as he takes in the two of them. Whether the man is looking at the tears tracks on Will’s face or his swollen lips remains unknown, but Jack’s mouth tightens with irritation and he gestures them out, eyes watching Will carefully.  
  
Hannibal gives him one more look, fond and promising, one that speaks of later action. And also, a promise to talk about the uglier stuff, and how he can help.  
  
Will nods in understanding, gut heavy with guilt and fear, and all sorts of worry.  
  
Later on, when Beverly offers to bandage his arms, after he refuses to be hospitalized, he lets himself ponder on where this could all go.  
  
It won’t be healthy, this new addition to their dynamic, and he aches all over, from bruises and phantom pains. Where Hannibal’s hands grabbed too harshly, where Jack and Beverly prodded at with twin frowns of concern. And despite it all, despite what he should do, he wants this.  
  
It has been so long since he has wanted anything besides relief, or a quiet mind, and he decides to give up any remnants of self-preservation for a moment and let himself have this.  
  
He knows it won’t last forever, and he wonders what will happen when it all falls apart. If Will dies, a happier man at the hands of his lover, or if Hannibal runs away, from the FBI and the sting of betrayal that Will leaves in him.  
  
Whatever it may be, Will doesn’t worry about it. He lets himself leave ugly thoughts for later, when he doesn’t have this new love thrumming through his veins. Love won’t fix this, and he doesn’t feel stupid enough to fall for the idea that it will change anything, but for the night he will allow himself to feel normal.  
  
He shoots a text to Hannibal, grin widening on his face, and when Beverly shoots him a bemused look he smiles at her too, something giddy in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who updated!! Sorry for the wait, college is kicking my ass lol.
> 
> They finally kissed!!!! Idk if this was really a slow burn but I caved in and made them kiss 
> 
> Also this is a longer update, nearly four thousand words so thats cool. I am conflicted with this chapter and idk if I like it. Hopefully it is good!! Thanks for 150 kudos btw!!!!!!!
> 
> Hope you are well and getting some sun/water (or both). Stay safe guys :)
> 
> Also comments really keep me motivated so to those who always comment thank you so so much :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: skin picking, suicidal ideation, romanticizing smoking. overall unpleasant thoughts.

There is this misconception that once the truth gets out, it eases the burden on the person’s shoulders. Where the hero of the story is redeemed, and everyone around them shows nothing but love. Will doesn’t think this is that type of story.  
  
Of course, it might be true in certain situations, and honestly in depends on the person. Perhaps Will just doesn’t have a conscious that feeds on people knowing as a sort of salvation, and instead builds his truths and lies on how he feels he should act.

Or Will is scared, more than he has been in a while, and the idea that they know, that this will spread, haunts him. He can see it now, the careful flicks of eyes up and down his body, kind questions of how his mental state is. Trips to the bathroom will be carefully monitored, and Hannibal will put him on more meds, until he is a fragile husk walking around the Earth, searching for a nonexistent purpose. People will think he is helpless and that in and of itself is a nauseating thought.

He’s not helpless, and he doesn’t long for death in that way most “depressed” people do. He isn’t the right kind of sad for people to learn and help, he just is how he always has been. Built to withstand different things, feed, and feel the emotions of everyone but himself. Destined to have something great at his disposal, only to be buried beneath the weight of it all. Visions of death sweet to his tongue until they aren’t, turning grey and dull as he realizes he’ll never get better.

Long gone are the days where he even thinks about being normal. It is not meant for someone like him, and yet he still wants it. He wants to be able to drive without worrying about blacking out or being able to look at pills and alcohol without seeing his father in them. Wants to be able to look at Alana with soft warm eyes and love her in that way all normal men dude. Sweet, affectionate, perhaps a bit lustful. He wants to be good at his job, but not the best, wants to not think about driving a knife into his skin every moment he is awake. 

The euphoria mixed with fear he felt mere hours ago has faded, like it was never there. 

Eventually Will goes back to overthinking everything. It is surprisingly easy to fall back into a sour mood, and it’s not surprising to see how low he falls so quickly. It hasn’t even been eight hours since they all found out Will’s ugly sins, and he already sees ghosts flickering just outside his vision, feels the fierce bloodthirst build up in his hands. On the other hand, the self-deprecation comes back to bite him quickly, some sadder than he can explain settling in his chest.  
  
Something he should have known is that love won’t fix things.

Hannibal and his strong careful hands, and soft near-blank eyes won’t heal him. It was a foolish notion to begin with, and now in the quiet darkness of his home, he can’t understand how he ever believed it. 

Maybe it was the weather, the sun glinting of the man’s older hair, something happy, something to fill a bit of that dark space in his chest. His meals, and careful words, and just the way he seems so unmovable, someone Will can lean on. Foolish notions born from idiocy. How it is getting a bit cold, and all Will can think of is how easily it matches the agony beating in his chest.

His dogs bark, chasing something from outside, and his chest tenses up, something desperate passing through.

And so, it goes. 

And maybe work is draining him, and he should be happy at how easy he can sleep because of it, the exhaustion tearing at the edges of his consciousness. He doesn’t necessarily need to take sleeping pills some nights, but he still downs them, guilt nothing more than a fleeting thought.

His ruination should be nobodies but his own, and people know. People know and now they will be careful around him, and Will just want everything to stop.

The pill bottles scattered over the expanse of his bathroom counter call to him, and it is a fleeting image, his body shaking and frothing over a pill too many. 

Somewhere along the lines of this all, Will has lost that fight in him, that bit in his brain that kept him coming back, trying to do something good. He can’t even say he misses it, not with the dull ache that beats through him like clockwork.  
His eyes flick outside, and watching the dying sunset, and he blinks away the sudden tears that prick at his eyes.

Nothing about anything of this feels easy, and yet flickers of Hannibal’s concern go through his mind constantly. He replays them, watching maroon eyes widen and soften with worry, the wide set to his mouth settling into a fond, tired purse. And just thinking about the man makes Will want to do something stupid. Like call him and make him come over, making him reassure Will that everything will be alright. It’s not, and perhaps that’s where the problem lies. 

Maybe if he stops thinking things will get better, maybe if he just stops trying, things will calm down. 

Hannibal would know what to say, and the urge to call him remains.

Instead, he walks outside, ignoring the way the cool breeze makes him tense up, biting at the disappearing warmth in his skin. He lights a cigarette, and takes a drag, staring at the bright sky, as it fades into night.  
Something distinct about it makes Will sad, and he hates the way he can’t stop the tears that crawl down his face, or the way his hands shake. It’s cold and getting dark, and Will has lost the ability to explain how awful everything makes him feel.

He draws in another lungful of smoke, and he holds it for a while, telling himself that the fierce ache, the desperate way it makes him shake can explain it all away. He can blame this all on bad eating habits and cigarette smoke, and ignore that this was bound to happen, that he was eventually going to slip up. Some part of him knows that he was already on that watchlist, it just happened to be the one people didn’t expect.

He sort of wants to talk about it, scream into this ugly void that is his backyard, up to gods that probably don’t exist. Will wants something to place blame onto, something to show him that this isn’t his fault. But he can’t start to explain things, because the way people react to these sorts of things is often a bit much, too many emotions and concerns for Will to even try and ignore. He can’t imagine telling Jack anything, without putting himself further into debt to the man. He is always so fatherly, and despite his disregard for Will’s safety, he’d care, and that is what bothers Will. 

Some part of him had thought that when people found out how sad he is, how fucked up his skin is, that they’d yell at him. Some sort of disgust in their tone, something to eat away at anything that they can find. He hadn’t realized how much he expected this, until he was dropped off at home, and Jack had hugged him. It was a quick thing, and Will didn’t have time to process the shaky frown on the man’s face before the car drove off, leaving him to his thoughts. 

People care about him, and that’s what is killing him. He doesn’t like hurting people like this, and to know that some people will spend the next week with worried thoughts sent Will’s way scares him. 

He has become accustomed to being the black sheep, the strange creature in the corner of the room, someone who can be pushed aside and laughed at. Anything really, except this. 

And there is Hannibal. Christ, for some reason unbeknownst to him, this is both the easiest and hardest with him.

Easy because Hannibal won’t judge him, at least not with words, and his presence has become something of a comfort lately, the way he doesn’t change. Hard because to be known so intimately scares him, and sometimes Hannibal will watch him with unmoving eyes, and its like Will is on the table being pulled apart.

And yet he could explain this all to Hannibal, and he’d understand. Maybe that’s what he finds the most troublesome.

And he is so tired, and its cold, and all Will can think of is how many minutes he can last before doing something rash. 

His eyes trace the sky, and then fall to the pale scars on the legs, telling a story of his troubles. His hand unconsciously trails down to scratch at the raised bits, eyes blinking down at the sudden rush of pain, as nails pick at scabs. Something about the fresher bits worry him, the way they flush pink against his pale skin, and were he anyone else he would cover up from the cold.

Instead, he watches the smoke from his cigarette disappear into the evening sky, feels all the thoughts in his head lump together, pressing against his throat. He watches a bird fly across the horizon and thinks about all of these feelings and thoughts and wishes they would dissipate. 

Thinks about how his life thus far an accumulation of failures has been, all pilling up until all Will thinks of is the what if’s, the person he could have been if he had just done something a bit different. He thinks about death and the blood on his hands, the blood that will eventually find its way onto the rest of him, and how he should be more worried. He thinks about he is slowly falling into this pit he can’t escape, and the man he was six months ago would be horrified. He wonders why death doesn’t scare him the way it should, how the idea of trying to die and failing is more frightening. How he is tired, and he doesn’t know how to express this, so he takes it out on his skin, desperate and feral, wishing he would just die. Mostly though he just thinks about how awful Hannibal is, how terrible this love that is growing between them is becoming.

How if Will could change, get better, Hannibal wouldn’t want him. 

He takes a deep drag, and blows the thoughts away from him, watching it disappear and break, like all of his dreams. 

He misses the sun even though its still there, peeking over the trees, fading away as the moon takes its place. How empty the cold makes him feel, and how if he could get enough energy from the sun, maybe he’d be happy. Surround himself with enough yellow bright things, and perhaps he’ll fool himself into becoming something else. He wants to call Hannibal, and rant, whisper all these feelings through the phone. 

Admit that perhaps all of this self-hatred goes beyond that. That maybe he was sad before this all, and all the blood and thoughts and ghosts made it worse. 

And like that the sun is gone, and his dogs are howling, and Will is so tired. And things will inevitably change because of this, this much he knows. 

Jack and Beverly, they will treat him more fragile than he is, act like the man who he is now, is different then before they knew. That somehow finding this out makes him weaker, as if he weren’t already struggling long before anyone else knew. And Price and Zeller will make comments, and he will bear them as he always does, but they will sting more now. Alana will like him even less, a patient more than a friend, and something awful will happen between them, he can see it now.  
  
Everything will go wrong, and all Will can think about is how he’ll manage to make it to the end of the week. And he should still be hospitalized but he supposes the FBI has its way of pulling strings, but Will distantly wonders if he can make everyone regret that. 

He can see it now, walking into his kitchen and taking his sharpest knife out. Feels the phantom pains of a knife in his wrists, the blooding pooling onto his kitchen floor, his dogs howling in concern from outside. It is just a thought, but Will feels his muscles tense up, as if to act on it. 

And he is tired, and its cold, and maybe that is why he ends up calling Hannibal. 

It rings only once before Hannibal picks up, as if he were waiting for this moment. 

“Hello Will?” Hannibal sounds so courteous, like he just finished with a patient, and has yet to pack away that aspect of his personality, forgetting who he is talking to for a moment. It is enough though, and Will’s thoughts silence for a moment, eyes falling to the worn grains of his porch. 

“Hey.” He says slowly, eyes flickering behind him into his window, trying to catch the time, to no avail. “Sorry for calling so late.”

“Nonsense. I’m always here for a friend.” As if remembering the events earlier today, he laughs a bit, warm and fond even through the distortion of the phone. “And for people I love.” 

He can feel his face flush, and he returns the laugh, quiet and awkward, but something to let Hannibal know that he agrees, or hears him at the very least.

“I suppose I should thank you.” He drawls, easing the tension in his chest, practically begging Hannibal to leave this all alone. Some vicious part of him wants Hannibal to address it, scold him, yell at him for the foolish way he is destroying himself.

Or maybe he just wants a hug, and maybe if he starts crying, Hannibal will come over and hold him.

“Of course.” The man whispers back, a mere crackle through the phone, and Will sighs, lighting another cigarette. He looks at the pale canvas of his thighs, and considers pressing the burning butt into his skin, whimpering over the phone. Just to see what Hannibal would do. 

Like an awful form of flirtation, seeing where Hannibal draws the line when it comes to Will in pain.

Instead, he stares at the enveloping darkness surrounding him, listens to a dog near him drinking water, and waits. 

But the waiting, the silence makes him squirm, and it makes him think of all the things he’d rather forget. How he aches for something different, and maybe for Hannibal to come over and quiet the roaring of his mind.

And he wants to hate Hannibal for crawling so deeply underneath Will’s skin, blame him for his mental deterioration, even though he knows its not all his fault. It would be easy to blame him for everything, to yell at him till his face turns red, to grab his fishing knife and jam it into the divot between Hannibal’s neck and skull. Just to ease the bloodlust within him, to shut up the familiar voice that now crawls around Will’s mind. He’s just tired, and people know how tired he is, and maybe he just is waiting for something to change.

His hands begin to shake, and ashes fall onto his skin, lacking the warmth he wishes they’d have.

“Will?” It’s just his name, but it’s his name in that warm even voice, and maybe it’s because Will has been tearful all night. Either way, he can’t stop the sob from falling into the receiver, something awful sounding in the near silence of the night. “Are you alright?” The man asks, and it’s a stupid question, and he says that through the phone, listening to the distinct pause that Hannibal takes when he doesn’t know whether he should be offended or not.

Despite his worry, Hannibal lets Will cry into the phone, gasping little hiccups, shuddering at the salt that leaks into his mouth.

“No, I’m just tired. It’s fine really.” He eventually says, and its not true in the slightest, but if he keeps saying that, maybe Will can start believing it.

“I’d hate to instigate.” Hannibal begins, and Will laughs despite himself. Liar. “But after recent events, I am reluctant to believe you on matters like this.”

What he doesn’t say is I don’t trust you enough to tell me the truth. I don’t believe that you have ever been okay, and you need to stop pretending that you are. But Will hears it all the same, a phantom whisper over the curve of his shoulder.  
  
He wipes away the damp tracks on his face, laughing tiredly. Hannibal laughs back, polite and understanding, and it feels unbearably warm, but Will is cold. So, he holds onto it for a moment, pictures what he would do if the man were actually here. 

Visons of his hands pressing Hannibal into his bed, sharp teeth biting into the soft flesh of Will’s thighs. He wonders if Hannibal would be a soft lover, or if he would let Will ask him to do things. To break him a bit, make him warm enough to forget everything for a while. Muddle up his brain until he can only think of the older man.

He considers propositioning Hannibal then, some sly remark over the phone, not quite begging but close enough to intrigue the man.

“I’m cold.” He says instead, and perhaps it works that way anyways, because he practically sees the narrowing of Hannibal’s eyes, and way his pupils widen. 

“Is your heat not working again?” The man asks, perfunctory and knowing all at once, but waiting to see if Will is going to say what’s on his mind. 

“I’m outside actually.” He admits, and then he quickly adds on before Hannibal can scold him. “But I don’t like the winter.” He admits, and waits for Hannibal to do his own connecting, picturing the way his wide lips purse into a thoughtful frown.  
“Do you feel better during the summertime?”

“I like the heat, and the fishing.” And the way he can think properly, and how maybe the warmth gives him an artificial happiness. It reminds him of flowers and Abigail, Hannibal’s smile, and all the decent summers he had as a child. Before he was classified as fucked up before he knew that was true. 

Hannibal hums, and Will can hear the scratching of a pen to paper if he strains his ears enough. 

“Eat something warm, crawl in front of your fireplace. It is hardly a proper replacement, but it should do for now.” The unsaid promise in the man’s voice makes him shiver, and he makes a small noise from the back of his throat, something wounded and wanting.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not above carnal desires Will.” He remarks, and he sounds so affronted, that Will has to laugh, something giddy in his belly. Winston walks over to him, lying his head on Will’s bare feet, and he focuses on that gentle warmth for a moment, affection beating hard in his chest. 

“If you say so.” He says absentmindedly, and Hannibal doesn’t respond, but he can hear the rustling of papers in the background, the soft hums that Hannibal lets out. He vaguely recognizes the piece that the man is humming, and he keeps it in the back of his head to ask about later, when he can see the way Hannibal reacts when Will says it.

He takes another drag before grinding the remainder of the butt out on the chair’s arm, and he closes his eyes, wrist aching from the weight of the phone still in his hand. The wind bites at the exposed skin of his forearm, and he wonders what would happen if he took off all his bandages.

Let himself rot on this porch, dissolve into nothing. 

He breathes in the scent of the cold forest around him, the puppy smell that Winston still carries, the smoke that lingers on his skin. Holding his breath for a few moments, reveling in the gentle ache, proof he is still alive. 

Will finds himself becoming rather sleepy, and he listens to Hannibal reading to himself, something foreign, not European but too indistinct for Will to place it. 

He lets himself relax in his chair, letting his thoughts dissipate for a moment, trying to let go.

He doesn’t think about how tired he is, about expectations he will never meet, about the sad eyes that will follow him around now. He doesn’t let himself think about how Hannibal shouldn’t care for him, how whatever they have will doom them forever. 

He will hesitate forever, and Hannibal will show uncharacteristic patience, something akin to love beating in them both. It’s awful and Will wonders how it will go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahahhah im back! (guess who's back, back again, guess whos' back guess who's back ....) lmao
> 
> sorry for being gone for a while! school is rough and i had a point where i was not doing anything let alone writing for fun hahahahhahah im better now lol
> 
> anyways this is a bit of filler to get myself back into the flow of things, a bit of a rant/reflection on my behalf, and just overall more introspection from will
> 
> i hope this was alright, and that all of you guys are cool and chillin' and overall just having great vibes

**Author's Note:**

> I made this to vent my feelings into my comfort character, so I hope no offense is taken in my characterization of him. I adore Will so much and his ability to empathize while also toeing the line of darkness. I also love the idea of a Will that is already dark but is trying desperately to not give into it. Anyways stay safe, lots of love to whoever reads this. <3


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